Seven Minor Epics of the English Renaissance (1596-1624) Part 15

Yong _Mahomet_, the wanton of her eie, Which teacheth wars, & caught his nonage daies That gaue such hansell of his tyranny, In those first battails, and apprentize sayes, Which did so hotly dart their early rayes, On _Sigismond_, or that wherein was tane, _Philip_ the n.o.ble Duke of _Burgondy_, With him kept prisoner, o farre better slaine!

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Yong _Mahomet_ to _Greece_ the fatall scourge, Which thither death, and desolation brought, Euen to the faire _Constantinoples_ veirdge, The _Grecian_ Empires chaire, the which he sought For which a huge digested army fought.

And at the last, distressed _Constantine_, And of all Christians did the Citty purge, O shame to _Europes_ Peeres, and Kings diuine.

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Let _Italy_ take heed, the New-moone threats, To reare his hornes on _Romes_ great Capitall, And doth not _Rome_ deserue such rough defeats, That should be mother of compa.s.sion all?

And counite the states, and princ.i.p.all In league, and loue, which now for trifles iarre, The _Persian Sophy_ shames our Christian feats, Who with the _Souldan_ ioynes gainst _Turkish_ war.

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Had _Constantine_, that three times sacred Prince, Beene rescu'd then by power of Christendome, _Mathias_ neuer should haue cran'd defence, Of _Germans_, _English_, _Spanish_, _France_, and _Rome_, Taxes of warre, to these climes had not come: Nor yet the _Turke_ with all his barbarous hoast, Durst with the Catholikes such war commence, Where now they haue heard their drums, & feard their hoast.

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Who reads or heares the losse of that great town _Constantinople_ but doth wet his eyes?

Where litle babes fr[=o] windows were pusht down Yong Ladies blotted with adulteries, Old fathers scourg'd with all base villanies?

O mourne her ruine, and bewish the _Turke_, eternall depriuation of his Crowne, That durst for paganisme such outrage worke.

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When _Mahomet_ had man'd the wals, the towne surpriz'd Great grew the slaughter, bloudy waxt the fight, Like _Troy_, where all was fir'd, and all despis'd, But what stood gracious in the victors sight.

Such was the wo of this great citty right: Here lay a Saint throwne downe, & here a Nun, Rude _Sarazens_ which no high G.o.d agnis'd, Made all alike our wofull course to run.

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And in this deadly dealing of sterne death, And busie dole of euery Souldiers hand, Where swords were dul'd with robbing men of breath Whil'st rape with murder, stalk't about the land, And vengeance did performe her own command, and where 'twas counted sin to thinke amisse: There no man thought it ill to do all scath, O what doth warre respect of bale or blisse?

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There stood an ancient Chappell next the Court, Where sacred Bishops said their morrow Ma.s.se.

And sung sweet _Anthems_ with a loud report, To that eternall G.o.d-head, whose sonne was, Sequestred from the Trinity to pa.s.se, Vnder the burthen of the holy Crosse, For our redemption, whose death did retort, The sting of Sathan, and restor'd our losse.

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Hither was got of silly maides some few, Whom happily no Souldier yet had seas'd, Tendring their spotlesse vows, in child-cold dew, Of virgin teares, to haue the heauens appeas'd But teares too late, must be too soone displeas'd, And hither, like a Tyger from the chase, Recking in bloudy thoughts, and bloudy shew, Came _Amurath_ himselfe to sacke the place.

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In Armour clad, of watchet steele, full grim, Fring'd round about the sides, with twisted gold, Spotted with s.h.i.+ning stars vnto the brim, Which seem'd to burn the spheare which did th[=e] hold: His bright sword drawn, of temper good and old, A full moone in a fable night he bore, On painted s.h.i.+eld, which much adorned him, With this short Motto: _Neuer glorious more_.

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And as a Diamond in the dark-dead night, Cannot but point at beames on euery side, Or as the s.h.i.+ne of Ca.s.siopaea bright, Which make the zodiacke, where it doth abide, Farre more then other planets to be ey'd: So did faire _Hirens_ eyes encounter his, And so her beames did terror strike his sight, As at the first it made e'm vale amisse.

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O that faire beauty in distresse should fall, For so did she, the wonder of the east, At least, if it be wondrous faire at all, That staines the morning, in her purple nest, With guilt-downe curled Tresses, rosy drest, Reflecting in a cornet wise, admire, To euery eye whom vertue might appall.

And Syren loue, inchant with amorous fire.

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A thousand Bashawes, and a thousand more, Of _Ianizaries_, crying to the spoile, Come rus.h.i.+ng in with him at euery dore, That had not Loue giuen Barbarisme the foile, The faire had beene dishonored in this while.

But o when beauty strikes vpon the heart: What musicke then to euery sence is bore, All thought resigning them, to beare apart.

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For as amongst the rest, she kneel'd sad weeping, In tender pa.s.sion by an altars side, And to a blessed Saint begins her creeping, He stood loue-wounded, what should her betide, Whilst she saw him turnd round, & well nie died.

Let darknes shroud quoth she, my soule in night, Before my honor be in _Mahounds_ keeping, Prisoner to enuy, l.u.s.t, and all vnright.

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O, if thou beest a Souldier, lend thy sword, To ope the bosomes, where yet neuer lay, Ign.o.ble Souldier, nor imperious Lord, Of all whom war hath grip'd into her sway, Onely remaine we few, let not this day, Begin with vs, who neuer did offend, Or else do all of vs one death afford, If not, kill me, who ne'r was Pagans friend.

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But now (said _Mahomet_) thou shall be mine, Thine eies haue power to such a great mans hart, If then they worke on me to make me thine, Say thou art wrong'd? dishonor doth impart No loue, where he may force: but mine thou art, And shalt be only in thine own free choice, What makes me speake, makes me speak thus diuine Else could I threat thee with a conquerors voyce.

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What you may do (said she) I do not know, But know you this, there is a thousand waies, To finde out night before my shamelesse brow, Shall meet that day in guilt of such misrayes.

Oh how vniust art thou? the pagan sayes, To him which sues for a respecting eye, And no ign.o.ble action doth allow, But honor, and thy faires to gratifie.

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The effect of both is one (said she) both spils, And layes my shame o're mastred at thy feet, But greatnesse (said he) doth outface all ills, And maiesty (make sowre apparance sweete, Where other powers th[=e] greatnes doth cut meet?

It doth indeed, said she, but we adore, More th[=e] a great Earth-monarch wh[=o] death kils, Mortall soules, thinke on th'immortall more.

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