Excerpt
ROSAMUND.
His blew His winds, and they were scattered.
'One soweth and another reapeth.' Ay,Too true, too true. One soweth—unawareCometh a reaper stealthily while he dreams—Bindeth the golden sheaf, and in his bosomAs 't were between the dewfall and the dawnBears it away. Who other was to blame?Is it I? Is it I?—No verily, not I,'T was a good action, and I smart therefore;Oblivion of a righteous enmityWrought me this wrong. I pay with my self ruthThat I had ruth toward mine enemy;It needed not to slay mine enemy,Only to let him lie and succourlessDrift to the foot o' the Everlasting Throne;Being mine enemy, he had not accusedOne of my nation there of unkind deedsOr ought the way of war forbids. Let be!I will not think upon it. Yet she was—O, she was dear; my dutiful, dear child.One soweth—Nay, but I will tell this out,The first fyte was the best, I call it suchFor now as some old song men think on it.
I dwell where England narrows running north;And while our hay was cut came rumours upHumming and swarming round our heads like bees:
'Drake from the bay of Cadiz hath come home,And they are forth, the Spaniards with a forceInvincible.' 'The Prince of Parma, couchedAt Dunkirk, e'en by torchlight makes to toilHis shipwright thousands—thousands in the portsOf Flanders and Brabant. An hundred hendesTransports to his great squadron adding, allFor our confusion.' 'England's great allyHenry of France, by insurrection fallen,Of him the said Prince Parma mocking cries,He shall not help the Queen of England nowNot even with his tears, more needing themTo weep his own misfortune.' Was that allThe truth? Not half, and yet it was enough(Albeit not half that half was well believed),For all the land stirred in the half beliefAs dreamers stir about to wake; and nowComes the Queen's message, all her lieges bidTo rise, 'lieftenants, and the better sortOf gentlemen' whereby the Queen's grace meant,As it may seem the sort that willed to riseAnd arm, and come to aid her. Distance wroughtSafety for us, my neighbours and near friends,The peril lay along our channel coastAnd marked the city, undefended fairRich London. O to think of Spanish mailRinging—of riotous conquerors in her street,Chasing and frighting (would there were no moreTo think on) her fair wives and her fair maids.—But hope is fain to deem them forth of her.
Then Spain to the sacking; then they tear awayArras and carvèd work. O then they breakAnd toss, and mar her quaint orfèveriePriceless—then split the wine kegs, spill the mead,Trail out the pride of ages in the dust;Turn over with pikes her silken merchandise,Strip off the pictures of her kings, and spoilTheir palaces that nigh five hundred yearsHave rued no alien footsteps on the floor,And work—for the days of miracle are gone—All unimaginable waste and woe....