As that she ended ere she had begun,

Speaking before what should have come behind:
From that she to another course doth run,
To be revenged in some notorious kind,

By stab, or poison; and she'll swear to both,
But for her life she could not find an oath.

XCVIII.

She pen and paper takes, and makes no doubt, But the king's cruel dealing to discover; But soon forgetting what she went about, Poor queen, she fell to scribbling to her lover: Here she put in, and there she blotted out, Her passion did so violently move her,

That turning back to read what she had writ, She tore the paper and condemned her wit.

XCIX.

But from her passion being somewhat raised, Like one that lately had been in a swound, Or felt some strange extremity appeased, That had been taken from some blow or wound, Yet on that part it had so strongly seized, That for the same no remedy was found; But at the very point their life to lose,

As they their goods, she doth her grief dispose.

C.

Quoth she, "King Edward, as thou art my son,
Leaving the world, this legacy I leave thee:
My heart's true love, my Mortimer hath won,
And yet of all he shall not so bereave thee;
But for this mischief to thy mother done,

Take thou my curse, so that it may outlive thee,
That as thy deed doth daily me torment,
So may my curse thee, by my testament.

CI.

"And henceforth in this solitary place,
Ever residing from the public sight,
A private life I willingly embrace,
No more rejoicing in the obvious light,

To consummate this too long lingering space,
Till death enclose me in continual night,

Let never sleep more close my wearied eye, So Isabella, lay thee down, and die."

Which liuedst long before the All-earth-drowning Flood,
Whilst yet the world did swarme with her Gigantick brood;
Goe thou before me still thy circling shores about,
And in this wandring Maze helpe to conduct me out:
Direct my course so right, as with thy hand to showe
Which way thy Forrests range, which way thy Riuers flowe;
Wise Genius, by thy helpe that so I may discry
How thy faire Mountaines stand, and how thy Vallyes lie;
From those cleere pearlie Cleeues which see the Mornings
pride,

And check the surlie Impes of Neptune when they chide,
Vnto the big-swolne waues in the Iberian streame,
Where Titan still vnyokes his fiery-hoofed Teame,
And oft his flaming locks in lushious Nectar steepes,
When from Olympus top he plungeth in the Deepes:
That from th' Armorick sands, on surging Neptunes leas
Through the Hibernick Gulfe (those rough Verginian seas)
My verse with wings of skill may flie a loftie gate,
As Amphitrite clips this Iland Fortunate,

Till through the sleepy Maine to Thuly I haue gone,
And seene the frozen Iles, the cold Ducalidon,
Amongst whose Iron rockes grym Saturne yet remaines,
Bound in those gloomie Caues with Adamantine chaines.
Yee sacred Bards, that to your Harps melodious strings
Sung th' ancient Heroes deeds (the monuments of Kings)
And in your dreadfull verse ingrau'd the prophecies,
The aged worlds descents, and Genealogies;

If, as those Druides taught, which kept the British rites,
And dwelt in darksome Groues, there counsailing with
sprites

(But their opinions faild, by error led awry

As since cleere truth hath shew'd to their posteritie)
When these our soules by death our bodies doe forsake,
They instantlie againe doe other bodies take;

I could haue wisht your spirits redoubled in my breast,
To giue my verse applause, to times eternall rest.

Each county is set forth in a song, and the songs are illustrated by maps, of which I give copy of one, reduced to a third of its original size. The first eighteen books of "Polyolbion" were published in 1612. In 1622 the whole poem appeared in thirty books, and about thirty thousand lines. Notes were furnished by John Selden. The plan of the whole may be represented by the song in which Drayton set forth the praises of his native county, Warwickshire.

CHAPTER XI.

DRAYTON'S "POLYOLBION."

DRAYTON'S "Polyolbion" is a poetical description, county by county, of his native land, happy in many ways, as that name implies. The opening sets forth its purpose. I quote here with the old spelling.

THE FIRST SONG.

Of Albions glorious Ile the Wonders whilst I write,
The sundry varying soyles, the pleasures infinite

(Where heate kills not the cold, nor cold expells the heat,
The calmes too mildly small, nor winds too roughly great,
Nor night doth hinder day, nor day the night doth wrong,
The Summer not too short, the Winter not too long)
What helpe shall I invoke to ayde my Muse the while?
Thou Genius of the place (this most renowned Ile)

THE THIRTEENTH SONG.

THE ARGVMENT.

This Song our Shire of Warwick sounds;
Revines old Ardens ancient bounds.
Through many shapes the Muse heere roues ;
Now sporting in those shady Groues,
The tunes of Birds oft staies to heare:
Then, finding Herds of lustie Deare,
She Huntresse-like the Hart pursues;
And like a Hermit walks, to chuse
The Simples euery where that growe;
Comes Ancors glory next to showe;
Tells Guy of Warwicks famous deeds;
To th' Vale of Red-horse then proceeds,
To play her part the rest among ;
There shutteth vp her thirteenth Song.

Vpon the Mid-lands now th' industrious Muse doth fall;
That Shire which wee the hart of England well may call,
As shee her selfe extends (the midst which is decreed)
Betwixt S. Michaels Mount, and Barwick-bord'ring Tweed,
Braue Warwick; that abroad so long advanc't her Beare,
By her illustrious Earles renowned euery where;
Aboue her neighboring Shires which alwaies bore her head.
My natiue Country then, which so braue spirits hast bred,
If there be vertue yet remaining in thy earth,
Or any good of thine thou breathd'st into my birth,
Accept it as thine owne whilst now I sing of thee;
Of all thy later Brood th' vnworthiest though I bee.
Muse, first of Arden tell, whose foot-steps yet are found
In her rough wood-lands more then any other ground
That mighty Arden held euen in her height of pride;
Her one hand touching Trent, the other, Severns side.
The very sound of these, the Wood-Nymphs doth awake:
When thus of her owne selfe the ancient Forrest spake;
My many goodly sites when first I came to showe,
Here opened I the way to myne owne ouer-throwe:
For, when the world found out the fitnesse of my soyle,
The gripple wretch began immediatly to spoyle'
My tall and goodly woods, and did my grounds inclose:
By which, in little time my bounds I came to lose.

When Britaine first her fields with Villages had fild,
Her people wexing still, and wanting where to build,
They oft dislodg'd the Hart, and set their houses, where
He in the Broome and Brakes had long time made his leyre.
Of all the Forrests heere within this mightie Ile,
If those old Britains then me Soueraigne did instile,
I needs must be the great'st; for greatnesse tis alone
That giues our kind the place: else were there many a one
For pleasantnes of shade that farre doth mee excell.
But, of our Forrests kind the quality to tell,

We equally partake with Wood-land as with Plaine,
Alike with Hill and Dale; and euery day maintaine
The sundry kinds of beasts vpon our copious wast's,
That men for profit breed, as well as those of chase.

Here Arden of her selfe ceast any more to showe; And with her Sylvan ioyes the Muse along doth goe.

When Phoebus lifts his head out of the Winters waue, No sooner doth the Earth her flowerie bosome braue, At such time as the Yeere brings on the pleasant Spring, But Hunts-vp to the Morne the feath'red Sylvans sing: And in the lower Groue, as in the rising Knole, Vpon the highest spray of euery mounting pole, Those Quirristers are pearcht with many a speckled breast. Then from her burnisht gate the goodly glittring East Guilds euery lofty top, which late the humorous Night Bespangled had with pearle, to please the Mornings sight: On which the Mirthfull Quires, with their cleere open

throats,

Vnto the ioyfull Morne so straine their warbling notes,
That Hills and Valleys ring, and euen the ecchoing Ayre
Seemes all compos'd of sounds, about them euery where.
The Throstell, with shrill Sharps; as purposely he song
T' awake the lustlesse Sunne; or chyding, that so long
He was in comming forth, that should the thickets thrill:
The Woosell neere at hand, that hath a golden bill;
As Nature him had markt of purpose, t' let vs see
That from all other Birds his tunes should different bee:
For, with their vocall sounds, they sing to pleasant May;
Vpon his dulcet pype the Merle doth onely play.
When in the lower Brake, the Nightingale hard-by,
In such lamenting straines the ioyfull howres doth ply,
As though the other Birds shee to her tunes would draw.
And, but that Nature (by her all-constraining law)
Each Bird to her owne kind this season doth invite,
They else, alone to heare that Charmer of the Night
(The more to vse their eares) their voyces sure would spare,
That moduleth her tunes so admirably rare,

As man to set in Parts, at first had learn'd of her.
To Philomell the next, the Linet we prefer;
And by that warbling bird, the Wood-Larke place we then,
The Red-sparrow, the Nope, the Red-breast, and the Wren,
The Yellow-pate: which though shee hurt the blooming tree,

Yet scarce hath any bird a finer pype then shee.

And of these chaunting Fowles, the Goldfinch not behind,
That hath so many sorts descending from her kind.
The Tydie for her notes as delicate as they,
The laughing Hecco, then the counterfetting Iay,
The Softer, with the Shrill (some hid among the leaues,
Some in the taller trees, some in the lower greaues)
Thus sing away the Morne, vntill the mounting Sunne,
Through thick exhaled fogs, his golden head hath runne,
And through the twisted tops of our close Couert creeps
To kisse the gentle Shade, this while that sweetly sleeps.
And neere to these our Thicks, the wild and frightfull
Heards,

Not hearing other noyse but this of chattering Birds,
Feed fairely on the Launds; both sorts of seasoned Deere :
Here walke, the stately Red, the freckled Fallowe there :
The Bucks and lusty Stags amongst the Rascalls strew'd,
As sometime gallant spirits amongst the multitude.

Of all the Beasts which we for our veneriall name,
The Hart amongst the rest, the Hunters noblest game:
Of which most Princely Chase sith none did ere report,
Or by description touch, t' expresse that wondrous sport
(Yet might haue well beseem'd th' ancients nobler Songs)
To our old Arden heere, most fitly it belongs:
Yet shall shee not invoke the Muses to her ayde;
But thee Diana bright, a Goddesse and a mayd:
In many a huge-growne Wood, and many a shady Groue,
Which oft hast borne thy Bowe (great Huntresse) vs'd to roue
At many a cruell beast, and with thy darts to pierce
The Lyon, Panther, Ounce, the Beare, and Tiger fierce ;
And following thy fleet Game, chaste mightie Forrests
Queene,

With thy disheueld Nymphs attyr'd in youthfull greene, About the Launds hast scowr'd, and Wastes both farre and neere,

Braue Huntresse: but no beast shall proue thy Quarries heere;

Saue those the best of Chase, the tall and lusty Red,
The Stag for goodly shape, and statelinesse of head,

Is fitt'st to hunt at force. For whom, when with his hounds
The laboring Hunter tufts the thicke vnbarbed grounds
Where harbor'd is the Hart; there often from his feed
The dogs of him doe find; or thorough skilfull heed,
The Huntsman by his slot, or breaking earth, perceaues,
Or entring of the thicke by pressing of the greaues
Where he hath gone to lodge. Now when the Hart doth
heare

The often-bellowing hounds to vent his secret leyre,
He rouzing rusheth out, and through the Brakes doth driue,
As though vp by the roots the bushes he would riue.
And through the combrous thicks, as fearefully he makes
Hee with his branched head, the tender Saplings shakes,
That sprinkling their moyst pearle doe seeme for him to
weepe;

VVhen after goes the Cry, with yellings lowd and deepe,
That all the Forrest rings, and euery neighbouring place:
And there is not a hound but falleth to the Chase.
Rechating with his horne, which then the Hunter cheeres,
VVhilst still the lustie Stag his high-palm'd head vp-beares,
His body showing state, with vnbent knees vpright,
Expressing (from all beasts) his courage in his flight.
But when th' approaching foes still following he perceiues,
That hee his speed must trust, his vsuall walke he leaues;
And or'e the Champaine flies: which when th' assembly find,
Each followes, as his horse were footed with the wind.
But beeing then imbost, the noble stately Deere
When he hath gotten ground (the kennell cast arere)

Doth beat the Brooks and Ponds for sweet refreshing soyle:
That seruing not, then proues if he his sent can foyle,
And makes amongst the Heards, and flocks of shag-wooll'd
Sheepe,

Them frighting from the guard of those who had their keepe.
But when as all his shifts his safety still denies,

Put quite out of his walke, the wayes and fallowes tryes.
Whom when the Plow-man meets, his teame he letteth stand
T'assaile him with his goad: so with his hooke in hand,
The Shepheard him pursues, and to his dog doth halow :
When, with tempestuous speed, the hounds and Huntsmen
follow;

Vntill the noble Deere through toyle bereau'd of strength,
His long and sinewy legs then fayling him at length,
The Villages attempts, enrag'd, not giuing way
To anything hee meets now at his sad decay.
The cruell rauenous hounds and bloody Hunters neer,
This noblest beast of Chase, that vainly doth but feare,
Some banke or quick-set finds: to which his hanch oppos'd,
He turnes vpon his foes, that soone haue him inclos'd.
The churlish throated hounds then holding him at bay,
And as their cruell fangs on his harsh skin they lay,
With his sharp-poynted head he dealeth deadly wounds.
The Hunter, comming in to helpe his wearied hounds,
He desperatly assailes; vntill opprest by force,
He who the Mourner is to his owne dying Corse,
Vpon the ruthlesse earth his precious teares lets fall.

To Forrests that belongs: but yet this is not all:
With solitude what sorts, that here's not wondrous rife ?
Whereas the Hermit leads a sweet retyred life,

From Villages repleate with ragg'd and sweating Clownes,
And from the lothsome ayres of smoky cittied Townes.
Suppose twixt noone and night, the Sunne his halfe-way
wrought

(The shadowes to be large, by his descending brought)
Who with a feruent eye lookes through the twyring glades,
And his dispersed rayes commixeth with the shades,
Exhaling the milch dewe, which there had tarried long,
And on the ranker grasse till past the noone-sted hong;
When as the Hermet comes out of his homely Cell,
Where from all rude resort he happily doth dwell:
Who in the strength of youth, a man at Armes hath been;
Or one who of this world the vilenesse hauing seene,
Retyres him from it quite; and with a constant mind
Mans beastliness so loathes, that flying humane kind,
The black and darksome nights, the bright and gladsome

dayes

Indifferent are to him, his hope on God that staies.
Each little Village yeelds his short and homely fare:
To gather wind-falne sticks, his great'st and onely care;
Which euery aged tree still yeeldeth to his fire.
This man, this is alone a King in his desire,
By no proud ignorant Lord is basely ouer-aw'd,
Nor his false prayse affects, who grosly beeing claw'd,
Stands like an itchy Moyle; or of a pin he wayes
What fooles, abused Kings, and humorous Ladies raise.
His free and noble thought, nere envies at the grace
That often times is giuen vnto a Baud most base,
Nor stirres it him to thinke on the Impostour vile,
Who seeming what hee's not, doth sensually beguile
The sottish purblind world: but absolutely free,
His happy time he spends the works of God to see,
In those so sundry hearbs which there in plenty growe:
Whose sundry strange effects he onely seeks to knowe.
And in a little Maund, beeing made of Oziars small,
Which serueth him to doe full many a thing withall,
He very choicely sorts his Simples got abroad.