In house, for wife and child, there is but cark and O frendship, flowr of flowers, O liuely sprite of

And him the sling; and him the shining swoord; He dieth, he is all dead, he pantes, he restes. Right ouer stood, in snow white armor braue, The Memphite Zoroas, a cunning clarke, To whom the heauen lay open, as his boke; Where fowle debate bredes bitter bale in eche di- And in celestiall bodies he could tell

And influence, and constellacions all;
What earthly chances would betide; what yere
Of plenty storde, what signe forewarned derth,
How winter gendreth snow; what temperature
In the primetyde doth season well the soyl;
Why somer burnes; why autumne hath ripe
grapes,

Whither the circle quadrate may become,
Whether our tunes heauens harmony can yelde,
Of four biggins among themselues howe great
Proporcion is; what sway the erring lightes
Doth send in course, gayne that fyrst mouing
heauen;

What grees one from another distant be,
What starr doth lett the hurtfull Sire to rage,
Or him more mylde what opposition makes,
What fyre doth qualifye Mauorses fyre,

What house eche one doth seke, what planett
raignes

Within this hemis sphere, or that small things
I speake, whole heauen he closeth in his brest.
This sage then in the starres had spyed the fates
Threatned him death without delay; and, sithe
He saw he could not fatall order change,
Foreward he prest in battaile, that he might
Mete with the rulers of the Macedoins;
Of his right hand desirous to be slaine,
The boldest beurne, and worthiest in the feilde;
And as a wight, now wery of his lyfe,
And seking death; in fyrst front of his rage,
Comes desperately to Alexanders face;
At him with darts one after other throwes;
With reckles words and clamour him prouokes,
And sayth, Nectanabs bastard, shamefull stayne
Of mothers bed, why losest thou thy strokes
Cowardes among? Turne thee to me, in case
Manhod there be so much left in thy hart:
Come fight with me, that on my helmet weare
Apolloes laurell both for learnings laude,
And eke for martiall praise; that in my shield
The seuen fold sophie of Minerue contein,
A match more mete, syr king, then any here.
The noble prince amoued takes ruthe upon
The wilfull wight, and with soft wordes ayen,
O monstrous man (quoth he) what so thou art,
I pray thee liue, ne do not with thy death
This lodge of lore, the Muses mansion marre;
That treasure house this hand shall neuer spoyle,
My sword shall neuer bruse that skilfull brayne,
Long gather'd heapes of science sone to spill;
O how fayre frutes may you to mortall men
From wisdoms garden geve?-How many may
By you the wiser and the better proue?
What error, what mad moode, what frenzy thee,
Perswades to be downe sent to depe Averne,
Where no artes flourish, nor no knowledge vailes
For all these sawes? When thus the souereign
said,

Alighted Zoroas, with sword unsheathed,
The careless king there smote above the greue,
At th'opening of his quishes wounded him,
So that the blood down rayled on the ground:
The Macedon perceiuing hurt, gan gnash,
But yet his mynde he bent; in any wise
Him to forbear: sett spurrs unto his stede,
And turnde away, lest anger of his smarte
Should cause reuenger hand deale balefull blowes.
But of the Macedonian chieftaines knights,
One Meleager could not beare this sight,
But ran upon the said Egyptian reuk,

And cut him in both knees: He fell to ground
Wherewith a whole rout came of souldieurs sterne,
And all in pieces hewed the sely seg.
But happily the soule fled to the starres,
Where, under him, he hath full sight of all,
Wherat he gased here with reaching looke.
The Persians wailde such sapience to forgo,
The very fone, the Macedonians, wisht
He would haue liued: king Alexander self
Demde him a man vnmete to dye at all;
Who won like praise for conquest of his yre,
As for stout men in field that day subdued:
Who princes taught how to discerne a man,
That in his bed so rare a jewel beares.
But ouer all those same Camenes, those same,
Deuine Camenes, whose honour he procurde,
As tender parent doth hys daughters weale,
Lamented, and for thankes, all that they can,
Do cherish him deceast, and set him free,
From dark obliuion of deuouring death.

MARCUS TULLIUS CICEROE'S DEATH. THERFORE, when restless rage of wynde and

waue,

He saw: By fates, alas, calde for, (quod he)
Is hapless Cicero; sayle on, shape course
To the next shore, and bring me to my death.
Perdy these thankes, reskued from civill sword,
Wilt thou my country pay? I see myne end:
So powers diuine so bid the gods aboue,
In citie saued that consul Marcus shend.
Speaking no more, but drawing from depe hart
Great grones, euen at the name of Rome rehearst;
His eies and chekes with showres of teares he
washt;

And (though a route in daily daungers worne)
With forced face the shipmen held their teares;
And strivyng long the seas rough flood to passe,
In angry windes and stormy showres made way.
And at the last safe ancred in the rode.
Came heauy Cicero a land; with pain,
His fainted lyms the aged sire doth draw,
And round about their master stood his band,
Nor greatly with their own hard hap dismayd,
Nor plighted faith proue in sharpe time to breake.
Some swordes prepare; some theyr dere lord assist:
In littour laid, they lead him unkouth wayes.
If so deceave Antonius cruell gleaues,
They might, and threats of following routs escape:
Thus lo, that Tullie went, that Tullius,
Of royal robe and sacred senate prince.
When he a far the men approche espieth;
And of his fone the ensignes doth acknowe,
And with drawn sworde Popilius threatning death;
Whose life and hole estate, in hazard once
He had preservde, when Rome, as yet too free,
Herd him, and at his thundring voice amazde:
Herennius eke, more eyger than the rest,
Present, enflamde with furie, him pursues.
What might he do? Should he use in defence
Dysarmed handes, or pardon ask for mede?
Should be with wordes attempt to turne the wrath
Of th' armed knight, whose safeguard he had
wrought?

No; age forbids, and fixt within depe brest
His countreys loue, and falling Romes ymage;
The charret turn, sayth he, let loose the raines,
Ronn to the undeserved death; me, lo,

Hath Phebus fowle, as messenger forewarnde,
And Jove desires a new heauens man to make.
Brutus and Cassius souls, liue you in blisse?
In case yet all the fates gainstriue us not,
Neither shall wee, perchaunce, dye unreuenged.
Now haue I liued, O Rome! ynough for me;
My passed life nought suffereth me to dout
Noysome obliuion of the lothsome death.

Swaps of the hed with his presumptuous yron.
Ne with that slaughter yet he is not filde:
Fowl shame on shame to heape, is his delite,
Wherefore the handes also doth he off smyte,
Which durst Autonius life so liuely paint.
Him yelding strained ghost, from welkin hie,
Whith lothy chere lord Phebus gan behold,
And in black clowd, they say, long hid his hed.

Slea me: yet all the offspring to come shall know, The Latine muses and the graces they wept,
And this deceas shall bring eternal life;

Yea, and (unlesse I fayle, and all in vaine:
Rome, I somtime thy augur chosen was)
Not euermore shall frendly fortune thee
Favour, Antonius: once the day shall come,
When her dear wights, by cruel spight thus slaine,
Victorious Rome shall at thy hands require:
Me likes therwhile, go se the hoped heauen.
Speche had he left, and therwith, he, good man,
His throte prepard, and held his hed unmov'd.
His hasting to those fates the very knightes
Be loth to see, and rage rebated, when
They his bare necke beheld, and his hoare heares;
Scant could they hold the teares that furth gan
burst,

And almost fell from bloody hands the swordes;
Only the sterne Herennius, with grym looke,
Dastards, why stand you still? he sayeth: and
straight

And for his fall eternally shall wepe:
And lo, hert percing Pitho, (strange to tell)
Who had to him suffisde both sense and wordes.
When so he spake; and drest with Nectar soote
That flowing tong, when his wind pipe disclosde,
Fled with her fleing frend, and (out alas)
Hath left ther earth, ne will no more returne:
Popilius flieth therwhile, and leauing there
The senseless stock, a griezely sight doth beare,
Unto Antonius boord, with mischief fed.

OF M. T. CICERO.

FOR Tullie late a tomb I gan prepare,
When Cynthie, thus, bad me my labour spare:
Such maner thinges become the dead, quoth hee,
But Tully liues, and still aliue shall bee.

N. G.

THE

POEMS

OF

GEORGE GASCOIGNE.

1