To The Author - William Alexander

In Waues of Woe thy Sighes my Soule doe tosse,
And doe burst vp the Conduits of my Teares,
Whose ranckling Wound no smoothing Baulme long beares,
But freshly bleedes when Ought vpbraides my Losse.
Then thou so sweetly Sorrow makes to sing,
And troubled Passions dost so well accord,
That more Delight Thy Anguish doth afford,
Then others Ioyes can Satisfaction bring.
What sacred Wits (when rauish'd) doe affect,
To force Affections, metamorphose Mindes,
Whilst numbrous Power the Soule in secret bindes,
Thou hast perform'd, transforming in Effect:
For neuer Plaints did greater Pittie moue,
The best Applause that can such Notes approue.


William Alexander

To M. Michaell Drayton - William Alexander

Now I perceiue PYTHAGORAS diuin'd,
When he that mocked Maxim did maintaine,
That Spirits once spoyl'd, reuested were againe,
Though chang'd in shape, remaining one in Mind;
These loue-sicke Princes passionate estates;
Who feeling reades, he cannot but allow,
That OVIDS soule reuiues in DRAYTON now,
Still learn'd in Loue, still rich in rare Conceits,
This pregnant Spirit affecting further Skill,
Oft alt'ring Forme, from vulgar Wits retir'd,
In diuers Idyoms mightily admir'd,
Did prosecute that sacred Studie still;
While to a full Perfection now attain'd,
He sings so sweetly that himselfe is stain'd.


William Alexander

Some Verses 2 - William Alexander

What wonder though my melancholious muse,
Whose generous course some lucklesse starre controules:
Her bold attempts to prosecute refuse,
And would faine burie my abortiue scroules.
To what perfection can my lines be rais'd,
Whilst many a crosse would quench my kindling fires:
Lo for Parnassus by the poets prais'd,
Some sauage mountaines shadow my retires.
No Helicon her treasure here vnlockes,
Of all the sacred band the chiefe refuge:
But dangerous Douen rumbling through the rockes,
Would scorne the raine-bowe with a new deluge.
As Tiber, mindefull of his olde renowne,
Augments his floodes to waile the faire chang'd place;
And greeu'd to glide through that degener'd towne,
Toyles with his depthes to couer their disgrace.
So doth my Douen rage, greeu'd in like sort,
While as his wonted honour comes to minde:
To that great Prince whilst he afforded sport,
To whom his Trident Neptune hath resign'd.
And as the want of waters and of swaines,
Had but begotten to his bankes neglect:
He striues t'encroch vpon the bordering plaines,
Againe by greatnesse to procure respect.

Thus all the creatures of this orphand boundes,
In their own kindes moou'd with the common crosse:
With many a monstrous forme all forme confoundes,
To make vs mourne more feelingly our losse.
We must our breastes to baser thoughts inure,
Since we want all that did aduaunce our name:
For in a corner of the world obscure,
We rest vngrac'd without the boundes of fame.
And since our Sunne shines in another part,
Liue like th'Antipodes depriu'd of light:
Whilst those to whom his beames he doth impart,
Begin their day whilst we begin our night.
This hath discourag'd my high-bended minde,
And still in doale my drouping Muse arrayes:
Which if my Phœbus once vpon me shin'd,
Might raise her flight to build amidst his rayes.

Written shortly thereafter by reason of an inundation of Douen, a water neere vnto the Authors house, wherevpon his Maiestie was sometimes wont to Hawke.


William Alexander

Some Verses 1 - William Alexander

Stay, tragick muse, with those vntimely verses,
With raging accents and with dreadfull sounds,
To draw dead Monarkes out of ruin'd herses,
T'affright th'applauding world with bloudie wounds:
Raze all the monuments of horrours past,
T'aduance the publike mirth our treasures wast.
And pardon (olde Heroes) for O I finde,
I had no reason to admire your fates:
And with rare guiftes of body and of minde,
Th'vnbounded greatnesse of euill-conquer'd states.
More glorious actes then were atchieu'd by you,
Do make your wonders thought no wonders now.
For yee the Potentates of former times,
Making your will a right, your force a law:
Staining your conquest with a thousand crimes,
Still raign'd like tyrants, but obey'd for awe:
And whilst your yoake none willingly would beare,
Dyed oft the sacrifice of wrath and feare.

But this age great with glorie hath brought forth
A matchlesse Monarke whom peace highlie raises,
Who as th'vntainted Ocean of all worth
As due to him hath swallow'd all your praises.
Whose cleere excellencies long knowne for such,
All men must praise, and none can praise too much
For that which others hardly could acquire,
With losse of thousands liues and endlesse paine,
Is heapt on him euen by their owne desire,
That thrist t'enioy the fruites of his blest raigne:
And neuer conquerour gain'd so great a thing,
As those wise subiects gaining such a King.
But what a mightie state is this I see?
A little world that all true worth inherites,
Strong without art, entrench'd within the sea,
Abounding in braue men full of great spirits:
It seemes this Ile would boast, and so she may,
To be the soueraigne of the world some day.
O generous Iames, the glorie of their parts,
In large dominions equall with the best:
But the most mightie Monarkes of men's harts,
That euer yet a Diadem possest:
Long maist thou liue, well lou'd & free from dangers,
The comfort of thine owne, the terrour of strangers.

Written to his Majestie by the Authour at the time of his Maiesties first entrie into England.

William Alexander

Elegie IV: On The Death of Prince Henrie - William Alexander

If griefe would giue me leaue, to let the world haue part
Of that which it [though surfetting] engrosses in my hart:
Then I would sow some teares, that so they mo might breed,
Not such as eyes vse to distill, but which the hart doth bleed.
As from a troubled spring like off-spring must abound,
So let my lynes farre from delight, hoarse [as their Authour] sound.
I care not at what rate that others pryse their worth,
So I disburthen may my minde, and powre my passions forth.
Though generall be the losse, one shelfe confounding quyte
The Kings chiefe joy, the kingdomes hope, & all the worlds delight;
And that each one of those, a diuerse wound giues me,
Whil'st all concurring would increase, what not increas'd can be:
Yet mine owne part when weigh'd, so deepe impression leaues,
That my soules pow'rs all so possess'd, no others it conceaues.
How can my hart but burst, while as my thoughts would trace
The great Prince Henries gallant parts, and not-affected grace?
Ah that I chanc'd so long [O worldly pleasure fraile!]
To be a witnesse of that worth, which I but liue to waile!
How oft haue I beheld [a world admiring it]
His Martiall sports euen men amaze, his wordes bewitch their wit;
Whose worth did in all mindes just admiration breed:
When but a childe, more then a man [ah too soon rype indeed!]
Still temperat, actiue, wise, as borne to doe great things;
He reallie shew what he was, a quint-essence of Kings.
With stately lookes yet mylde, a Majestie humane,
Both loue and reuerence bred at once, entys'd, yet did restraine.

What acting any where, he still did grace his part,
A courtlie Gallant with the King, a statlie Prince apart:
When both together were, O how all harts were wonne!
A Syre so louing to behold, so duetifull a Sonne.
He more then all his state his fathers fauour weigh'd,
And gloried more him to attend, then when else-where obey'd.
But heauen enuied the earth, that one it so should grace,
Who was not due vnto the world, though lent to it a space:
And straight they tooke their owne, who now no more appeares,
Euen when the Spheares & muses joyn'd, did serue to count his years.
What wit could not perswade, authoritie not force,
An vnion now at last is made [ah made by a divorce!]
Both once did one thing wish, and both one want do waile,
Thus miserie hath match'd vs now, when all things else did faile.
We might as all the rest, so this exception misse,
I rather we had jarr'd in all, or we had joyn'd in this.
This the first tempest is, which all this Ile did tosse,
His cradle Scotland, England tombe, both shar'd his life and losse.
O how the traitrous world, by flattering hopes betrayes
And scornes the confidence of man, who stil through danger strayes!
But most of all the great, when at their fortunes hight
Oft huge disasters do confound, not lookt for till they light.
That states which seem'd most calme, straight stormes in waues involue,
Who gathered were for greatest joy, with greatest griefe dissolue.
That Macedonian Syre, whose victories were ryfe,
The day which did his daughter wed, did part him selfe from lyfe.
French second Henrie to, slaine in like sort was seene,
As to triumph there with the rest, death had inuited beene:
For whil'st he tilting was, when all his troupes among,
A broken trees flow'n spark did proue more then his scepter strong.
That Goth who vanquish'd Rome, and thousands did destroy,
Euen when his bryde bent to embrace, died in his greatest joy.
The last yet first French King for courage, valour, wit,
Who by the sword acquyr'd the Crowne, fram'd for a scepter fit:
Whil'st mustring all his might, [being farre from feare or doubt]
He fraughted France with armed troupes, as bragging all about.
Then whil'st his hopes most high, euen kingdomes did appall,
He in that greatest pompe surprys'd, a villains prey did fall.
Thus hath it fatall beene, confirm'd in euery age,
That who did meet to acte great parts, went weeping from the stage.
Is it that God euen then, would hautie thoughts disbend?
Or that such times as eminent, vyle traitours most attend?
So when suspected least [O Ocean of annoy!]
Lo, mourning mirth preuented hath, & griefe encroach'd on joy.
Yet not in such a sort, as with some in times past,
Whose life being oft involu'd in blood, blood did dispatch at last:
But he [still sacred] went not violated hence,
The glorie of a Gallant youth, a paterne for a Prince.
What brest so barbourous is, which vertue can not charme?
No hand, no, nor no hart in ought, could do or dreame his harme.
Since by his sight not blest, all count themselues accurst,
By whom the world was big with hopes, which did not die but burst.
Tyme did contract it seem'd [his course so short foreseene]
That worth in youth, which all his age should haue extended beene:
For O, to what strange hight had his perfections flowne,
Had they as first, still by degrees proportionablie growne!
But superstition then, had statues made of gold,
And some might haue Idolatriz'd, as many did of old.
The fates [it may be] stay'd what after might him trap,
As in Campania Pompeyes death preuented had mishap:
He happie was in this, which few haue beene before,
When all opinions purchas'd were, to venture them no more.
For all perswaded are, as acted in effect,
That he might haue perform'd as much as mortalls could expect.
Thus went he from the world, when with the best thought euen,
Whil'st though but flourishing on earth, yet a ripe fruit for heauen.
The Lord oft twixt the King and dangers huge did stand,
And many so to saue, him sau'd, as life of all the Land:
For scorning all their crafts, who vglie euils did found,
What priuat plots did God disclose, what open force confound!
Yet when he was to part, [O what a wondrous oddes!]
Who was by nature the Kings Sonne, but by adoption Gods:
Nought vrging else his end, saue nature that declyn'd,
Bright Angels did beare hence that flowre, as other flowres the wind.

Both Deuils and men when joyn'd to kill for whom God cares,
May draw a starre as soone from heauen, as hurt one of their haires:
And whom he will remoue when as their time once comes,
No guards can guarde, no Physick helpe, one fit all force o'recomes.
But ah that treasures losse, which I can not digest,
Is still the center of my minde, the point where it must rest:
And each great part of his, which I did earst perceiue,
My fancies representing new do thoughts attendance craue.
What wonder though my plaints be thus for him imploy'd
Who my affections free till then, when Virgins, first enjoy'd?
And heare me [happie Ghost] that fame may spread them forth,
I vow to reuerence and enroule the wonders of thy worth:
That euen though chyldlesse dead, thou shall not barren be,
If Phoebus helpe to procreat posteritie for thee.
Thus where that others did abandon thee with breath,
As still aliue I trauell yet, to serue thee after death.


William Alexander

Elegie III - William Alexander

In silent horrors here, where neuer mirth remaines,
I do retire my selfe apart, as rage and griefe constraines:
So may I sigh vnknowne, whil'st other comfort failes,
An infranchised citizen of solitarie vales;
Her priuiledge to plain, since nought but plaints can please,
My sad conceptions I disclose, diseased at my ease.
No barren pitie here my passions doth increase,
Nor no detracter here resorts, deriding my distresse:
But wandring through the world, a vagabonding guest,
Acquiring most contentment then when I am reft of rest.
Against those froward fates, that did my blisse controule,
I thunder forth a thousand threats in th'anguish of my soule.
And lo lunaticke-like do dash on euery shelfe,
And conuocate a court of cares for to condemne my selfe:
My fancies which in end time doth fantasticke try,
I figure forth essentially in all the obiects by:
In euery corner where my recklesse eye repaires,
I reade great volumes of mishaps, memorials of despaires:
All things that I behold, vpbraid me my estate,
And oft I blush within my brest, asham'd of my conceit.
Those branches broken downe with mercie-wanting winds,
Obiect me my deiected state, that greater fury finds:
Their winter-beaten weed disperst vpon the plaine,
Are like to my renounced hopes, all scattred with disdaine.
Lo wondring at my state the strongest torrent stayes,
And turning and returning oft, would scorne my crooked wayes.
In end I find my fate ouer all before my face,
Enregistered eternally in th'annales of disgrace.
Those crosses out of count might make the rockes to riue,
That this small remanent of life for to extinguish striue:
And yet my rockie heart so hardned with mishaps,
Now by no meanes can be commou'd, not with Ioues thunder claps:
But in huge woes inuolu'd with intricating art,
Surcharg'd with sorrowes I succomb and senslesly do smart;
And in this labyrinth exil'd from all repose,
I consecrate this cursed corpes a sacrifice to woes:
Whil'st many a furious plaint my smoaking breast shall breath,
Ecclips'd with many a cloudie thought, aggrieu'd vnto the death:
With th'eccho plac'd beside some solitary sourse,
Disastrous accidents shall be the ground of our discourse.
Her maimed words shal shew how my hurt hart half dies,
Consum'd with corrosiues of care, caractred in mine eyes.
My Muse shall now no more transported with respects,
Exalt that euill deseruing one as fancie still directs:
Nor yet no partiall pen shall spot her spotlesse fame,
Vnhonestly dishonoring an honorable name.
But I shall sadly sing, too tragickly inclin'd,
Some subiect sympathizing with my melancholious mind.
Nor will I more describe my dayly deadly strife,
My publike wrongs, my priuate woes, mislucks in loue and life:
That would but vexe the world for to extend my toiles,
In painting forth particularly my many formes of foiles.
No, none in speciall I purpose to bewray,
But one as all, and all as one, I mind to mourne for ay.
For being iustly weigh'd, the least that I lament,
Deserues indeed to be bewail'd, til th'vse of th'eyes be spent;
And since I should the least perpetually deplore,
The most again though maruellous, can be bemoan'd no more.


William Alexander

Elegie II - William Alexander

Let not the world beleeue th'accusing of my fate
Tends to allure it to condole with me my tragick state:
Nor that I haue sent foorth these stormie teares of rage,
So by disburd'ning of my brest, my sorrowes to asswage.
No, no, that serues for nought, I craue no such reliefe,
Nor will I yeeld that any should be partners of my griefe.
My fantasie to feed I only spend those teares:
My plaints please me, no musicke sounds so sweetly in my eares,
I wish that from my birth I had acquainted bene
Still with mishaps, and neuer had but woes and horrors seene:
Then ignorant of Ioyes, lamenting as I do,
As thinking all men did the like, I might content me too.
But ah, my fate was worse: for it (as in a glasse)
Shew'd me through litle blinkes of blisse, the state wherein I was.
Which vnperfected ioyes, scarce constant for an houre,
Was like but to a watrie Sunne, that shines before a shoure.
For if I euer thought or rather dream'd of Ioyes,
That litle lightning but foreshew'd a thunder of annoyes:
It was but like the fruit that Tantalus torments,
Which while he sees & nought attains, his hunger but augments.
For so the shadow of that but imagin'd mirth,
Cal'd all the crosses to record, I suffer'd since my birth,
Which are to be bewail'd, but hard to be redrest:
Whose strange effects may well be felt, but cannot be exprest.
Iudge what the feeling was, when thinking on things past,
I tremble at the torment yet, and stand a time agast.

Yet do I not repent, but will with patience pine:
For though I mourne, I murmure not, like men that do repine.
I graunt I waile my lot, yet I approue her will;
What my soules oracle thinkes good, I neuer shall thinke ill.
If I had onely sought a salue to ease my paines,
Long since I had bewail'd my lot alongst th'Elysian plaines:
Yet mind I not in this selfe-louer-like to die,
As one that car'd not for her losse, so I my selfe were free.
No, may ten nights annoyes make her one night secure,
A day of dolors vnto her a moments mirth procure:
Or may a yeares laments reioyce her halfe an houre,
May seuen years sorrows make her glad, I shal not think them soure.
And if she do delight to heare of my disease,
Then ô blest I, who so may haue th'occasion her to please.
For now the cause I liue, is not for loue of life,
But onely for to honour her that holds me in this strife.
And ere those vowes I make do vnperform'd escape,
This world shal once againe renuerst resume her shapelesse shape.
But what? what haue I vow'd, my passions were too strong,
As if the mildest of the world delighted to do wrong:
As she whom I adore with so deuote a mind,
Could rest content to see me starue, be glad to see me pin'd.
No, no, she wailes my state, and would appease my cares,
Yet interdited to the fates, conformes her will to theirs.
Then ô vnhappie man, whom euen thy Saint would saue,
And yet thy cruel destinie doth damne thee to the graue.
This sentence then may serue for to confound my feares,
Why burst I not my brest with sighs, & drowne mine eyes with tears?
Ah, I haue mourn'd so much, that I may mourn no more,
My miseries passe numbring now, plaints perish in their store.
The meanes t'vnlode my brest doth quite begin to faile;
For being drunke with too much dole, I wot not how to waile.
And since I want a way my anguish to reueale,
Of force contented with my Fate, Ile suffer and conceale.
And for to vse the world, euen as my loue vs'd me,
Ile vse a count'nance like to one, whose mind from grief were free.

For when she did disdaine, she shew'd a smiling face,
Euen then when she denounc'd my death, she seem'd to promise grace.
So shall I seeme in show my thoughts for to repose,
Yet in the center of my soule shall shroud a world of woes:
Then wofull brest and eyes your restlesse course controule,
And with no outward signes betray the anguish of my soule.
Eyes raine your shoures within, arrowze the Earth no more,
Passe drowne with a deluge of teares the brest ye burnt before:
Brest arme your selfe with sighes, if ore weake to defend,
Then perish by your proper fires, and make an honest end.


William Alexander

Elegie I - William Alexander

Even as the dying Swan almost bereft of breath,
Sounds dolefull notes and drearie songs, a presage of her death:
So since my date of life almost expir'd I find,
My obsequies I sadly sing, as sorrow tunes my mind,
And as the rarest Bird a pile of wood doth frame,
Which, being fir'd by Phœbus rayes, she fals into the flame:
So by two sunnie eyes I giue my fancies fire,
And burne my selfe with beauties raies, euen by mine owne desire.
Thus th'angry Gods at length begin for to relent,
And once to end my deathfull life, for pitie are content.
For if th'infernall powers, the damned souls would pine,
Then let them send them to the light, to leade a life like mine.

O if I could recount the crosses and the cares,
That from my cradle to my Beare conduct me with despairs;
Then hungrie Tantalus pleas'd with his lot would stand:
I famish for a sweeter food, which still is reft my hand,
Like Ixions restlesse wheele my fancies rowle about;
And like his guest that stole heau'ns fires, they teare my bowels out.
I worke an endles task and loose my labor still:
Euen as the bloudie sisters do, that emptie as they fill,
As Sisiph's stone returnes his guiltie ghost t'appall,
I euer raise my hopes so high, they bruise me with their fall.
And if I could in summe my seuerall griefes relate,
All would forget their proper harms, & only waile my state.
So grieuous is my paine, so painfull is my griefe,
That death which doth the world affright, wold yeeld to me releefe.
I haue mishaps so long, as in a habit had,
I thinke I looke not like my selfe, but when that I am sad.
As birds flie but in th'aire, fishes in seas do diue,
So sorrow is as th'Element by which I onely liue:
Yet this may be admir'd as more then strange in me,
Although in all my Horoscope not one cleare point I see.
Against my knowledge, yet I many a time rebell,
And seeke to gather grounds of hope, a heau'n amidst a hell.
O poyson of the mind, that doest the wits bereaue:
And shrouded with a cloke of loue dost al the world deceiue.
Thou art the rocke on which my comforts ship did dash,
It's thou that daily in my wounds thy hooked heades dost wash.
Blind Tyrant it is thou by whom my hopes lye dead:
That whiles throwes forth a dart of gold, & whiles a lumpe of lead.
Thus oft thou woundest two, but in two diffrent states,
Which through a strange antipathy, th'one loues, & th'other hates.
O but I erre I grant, I should not thee vpbraid,
It's I to passions tyrrannie that haue my selfe betraid:
And yet this cannot be, my iudgements aymes amisse:
Ah deare Aurora it is thou that ruin'd hast my blisse:
A fault that by thy sexe may partly be excus'd,
Which stil doth loath what proferd is, affects what is refus'd.
Whil'st my distracted thoughts I striu'd for to controule,
And with fain'd gestures did disguise the anguish of my soule,
Then with inuiting lookes and accents stampt with loue,
The mask that was vpon my mind thou labordst to remoue.
And when that once ensnar'd thou in those nets me spide,
Thy smiles were shadowd with disdaines, thy beauties clothd with pride.
To reattaine thy grace I wot not how to go:
Shall I once fold before thy feete, to pleade for fauour so?
No, no, Ile proudly go my wrath for to asswage,
And liberally at last enlarge the raines vnto my rage.
Ile tell what we were once, our chast (yet feruent) loues,
Whil'st in effect thou seem'd t'affect that which thou didst disproue.
Whil'st once t'engraue thy name vpon a rock I sat,
Thou vow'd to write mine in a mind, more firme by far then that:
The marble stone once stampt retaines that name of thine:
But ah, thy more then marble mind, it did not so with mine:
So that which thral'd me first, shall set me free againe;
Those flames to which thy loue gaue life, shall die with thy disdaine.
But ah, where am I now, how is my iudgment lost!
I speak as it were in my power, like one that's free to bost:
Haue I not sold my selfe to be thy beauties slaue?
And when thou tak'st all hope from me, thou tak'st but what thou gaue.
That former loue of thine, did so possesse my mind,
That for to harbor other thoughts, no roome remains behind.
And th'only means by which I mind t'auenge this wrong,
It is, by making of thy praise the burden of my song.
Then why shouldst thou such spite for my goodwil returne?
Was euer god as yet so mad to make his temple burne?
My brest the temple was, whence incense thou receiu'd,
And yet thou set'st the same a fire, which others would haue sau'd.
But why should I accuse Aurora in this wise?
She is as faultlesse as she's faire, as innocent as wise.
It's but through my mis-lucke, if any fault there be:
For she who was of nature mild, was cruell made by me.
And since my fortune is, in wo to be bewrapt,
Ile honour her as oft before, and hate mine owne mishap.
Her rigorous course shall serue my loyall part to proue,
And as a touch-stone for to trie the vertue of my loue.
Which when her beautie fades, shall be as cleare as now,
My constancie it shall be known, when wrinkled is her brow:
So that such two againe, shall in no age be found,
She for her face, I for my faith, both worthy to be crownd.


William Alexander