92.

Whole hosts of sorrows her sick heart assail, When every letter lanced her like a dart, Striving against her which should most prevail, And yet not one but pricked her to the heart; Where one word might another's woe bewail, And with its neighbour seemed to bear a part, Each line served for so true a text to her, As in her woes would no way let her err.

93.

Grief bade her look, yet soon it bade her leave,
Wherewith o'ercharged she neither sees nor hears,
Her usefullest senses soonest her deceive,
The sight shuts up her eyes, the sound her ears,
And of her reading doth her quite bereave,
When for a fescue she doth use her tears,

Which when some line she loosely overpast
The drops could tell her where she left the last.

94.

Somewhat at length recovering of her sight,
Deeply she cursed her sorrow-seeing eye,

And said she was deluded by the light,
Or was abused by the orthography,
Or some one had deviséd it in spite,
Pointing it false, her scholarship to try:

Thus when we fondly flatter our desires,
Our best conceits do prove the greatest liars.

F

95.

Her trembling hand as in a fever quakes, Wherewith the paper doth a little stir, Which she imagines at her sorrow shakes, And pities it which she think pities her; Each small thing somewhat to the greater makes, And to her humour something doth infer:

Her woe-tied tongue but when she once could free, "Sweet Mortimer, my most loved lord," quoth she,

96.

"For thy dear ashes be my breast the urn, Which as a relic I of thee will save,

Mixed with the tears that I for thee shail mourn,

Which in this bosom shall their burial have;

Out of which place they never shall return,
Nor give the honour to another grave:
But here, as in a temple, be preserved,
Wherein thy image is most lively carved."

97.

Then breaks she out in cursing of her son, But Mortimer so runneth in her mind

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.

98.

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.

99.

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.

100.

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.

ΙΟΙ.

"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,

wearied eye,

Let never sleep more close my
So, Isabella, lay thee down and die.”

HEROICAL EPISTLES.

QUEEN ISABEL TO MORTIMER.

THE ARGUMENT.

Fair Isabel, Edward the Second's Queen,
Philip of France his daughter, for the spleen
She bare her husband, for that he affected
Lascivious minions and her love neglected,
Drew to her favour, striving to prefer,
That valiant young Lord Roger Mortimer :
Who with the Barons rose, but wanting power,
Was taken and imprisoned in the Tower.

But by a sleepy drink which she prepared,

And at a banquet given to his guard,

He makes escape: to whom to France she sends;
Who thence to her his service recommends.

THOUGH Such sweet comfort comes not now from her,
As England's Queen hath sent to Mortimer;
Yet what that wants (may it my power approve,
If lines can bring) this shall supply with love.
Methinks affliction should not fright me so,
Nor should resume those sundry shapes of woe;
But when I fain would find the cause of this,
Thy absence shows me where my error is.