The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung Up In America or Severall Poems
About this text
Lately sprung up in America.
Severall Poems, compiled
with great variety of Wit
and Learning, full of delight.
Wherein especially is contained a com-
pleat discourse and description of
- ages of man,
- seasons of the year.
Together with an Exact Epitomie of
the Four Monarchies, viz.
Also a Dialogue between Old England and
New, concerning the late troubles.
With divers other pleasant and serious poems.
By a gentlewoman in those parts.
Printed at London for Stephen Bowtell at the signe of the
Bible in Popes Head-Alley. 1650.
PUBLISHED FOR Stephen Bowtell
ALas, deare Mother, fairest Queen, and best,
With honour, wealth, and peace, happy and blest,
What ayles thee hang thy head, and crosse thine armes?
And sit i'th dust, to sigh these sad alarms?
What deluge of new woes thus overwhelme
The glories of thy ever famous Realme?
What meanes this wailing tone, this mourning guise?
Ah, tell thy Daughter, she may simpathize.
Art ignorant indeed, of these my woes?
Or must my forc d tongue these grief s disclose?
And must my selfe dissect my tatter'd state,
Which 'mazed Christendom stands wondring at?
And thou a childe, a Limbe, and dost not feele
My weakned fainting body now to reele?
This Phisick-purging-potion I have taken,
Will bring Consumption, or an Ague quaking,
Unlesse some Cordial thou fetch from high,
Which present help may ease this malady.
If I decease, dost think thou shalt survive?
Or by my wasting state, dost think to thrive?
Then weigh our case, if't be not justly sad,
Let me lament alone, while thou art glad.
And thus, alas, your state you much deplore,
In generall terms, but will not say wherefore:
What Medicine shall I seek to cure this woe,
If th' wound's so dangerous I may not know?
But you perhaps would have me guesse it out,
What, hath some Hengist, like that Saxon stout,
By fraud, and force, usurp'd thy flowring crown,
And by tempestuous Wars thy fields trod down?
Or hath Canutus, that brave valiant Dane,
The regall, peacefull Scepter from thee tane?
Or is't a Norman, whose victorious hand
With English blood bedews thy conquered Land?
Or is't intestine Wars that thus offend?
Doe Maud, and Stephen for the Crown contend?
Doe Barons rise, and side against their King?
And call in Forreign ayde, to help the thing?
Must Edward be depos'd, or is't the houre
That second Richard must be clapt i'th' Tower?
Or is the fatall jarre againe begun,
That from the red, white pricking Roses sprung?
Must Richmonds ayd, the Nobles now implore,
To come, and break the tushes of the Boar?
If none of these, deare Mother, what's your woe?
Pray, doe not feare Spaines bragging Armado?
Doth your Allye, faire France, conspire your wrack?
Or, doth the Scots play false behind your back?
Doth Holland quit you ill, for all your love?
Whence is this storme, from Earth, or Heaven above?
Is't Drought, is't Famine, or is't Pestilence?
Dost feele the smart, or feare the consequence?
Your humble Childe intreats you, shew your grief,
Though Armes, nor Purse she hath, for your releif:
Such is her poverty, yet shall be found
A supplyant for your help, as she is bound.
I must confesse, some of those Sores you name,
My beau eous Body at this present maime;
But forraigne Foe, nor fained friend I feare,
For they have work enough (thou knowst) elsewhere;
Nor is it Alcies Son, and Henries Daughter,
Whose proud contention cause this slaughter;
Nor Nobles si ing, to make John no King
French Lewis unjustly to the Crown to bring;
No Edward, Richard, to l se rule, and life,
Nor no Lancastrians, to renew old strife;
No Crook-backt Tyrant, now usurps the Seat,
Whose tearing tusks did wound, and kill, and threat:
No Duke of York, nor Earle of March, to soyle
Their hands in Kindreds blood, whom they did foyle:
No need of Teder, Roses to unite,
None knowes which is the Red, or which the White:
Spaines braving Fleet a second time is sunke,
France knowes, how of my sury she hath drunk;
By Edward third, and Henry fifth of fame,
Her Lillies in mine Armes avouch the same.
My Sister Scotland hurts me now no more,
Though she hath bin injurious heretofore.
What Holland is, I am in some suspence,
But trust not much unto his Excellence;
For wants, sure some I feele, but more I feare,
And for the Pestilence, who knowes how neare;
Famine, and Plague, two sisters of the Sword,
Destruction to a Land doth soone afford;
They're for my punishments ordain'd on high,
Unlesse thy teares prevent it speedily.
But yet, I answer not what you demand,
To shew the grievance of my troubled Land;
Before I tell the effect, ile shew the cause,
Which are my Sins, the breach of sacred Lawes;
Idolatry, supplanter of a Nation,
With foolish superstitious adoration;
And lik'd, and countenanc'd by men of might,
The Gospel is trod down, and hath no right;
Church Offices are sold, and bought, for gaine,
That Pope, had hope, to finde Rome here againe;
For Oathes, and Blasphemies did ever eare
From Beelzebub himself, such language heare?
What scorning of the Saints of the most high,
What injuries did daily on them lye;
What false reports, what nick-names did they take,
Not for their owne, but for their Masters sake;
And thou, poore soule, wast jeer'd among the rest,
Thy flying for the Truth I made a jeast;
For Sabbath-breaking, and for Drunken-nesse,
Did ever Land prophannesse more expresse?
From crying bloods, yet cleansed am not I,
Martyrs, and others, dying causelesly:
How many Princely heads on blocks laid down,
For nought, but title to a fading Crown?
'Mongst all the cruelties which I have done,
Oh, Edwards Babes, and Clare ce haplesse Son,
O Jane, why didst thou dye in flowring prime,
Because of Royall Stem, that was thy crime;
For Bribery, Adultery, for Thefts, and Lyes,
Where is the Nation, I cann't paralize;
With Usury, Extortion, and Oppression,
These be the Hydra's of my stout transgression;
These be the bitter fountains, heads, and roots,
Whence flow'd the source, the sprigs, the boughs, and fruits;
Of more then thou canst heare, or I relate,
That with high hand I still did perpetrate;
For these, were threatned the wofull day,
I mock'd the Preachers, put it farre away;
The Sermons yet upon record doe stand,
That cry'd, destruction to my wicked Land:
These Prophets mouthes (al s the while) was stopt,
Unworthily, some backs whipt, and eares crept;
Their reverent checks, did beare the glorious markes
Of stinking, stigmatizing, Romish Clerkes;
Some lost their livings, some in prison pent,
Some grossely fin'd, from friends to exile went:
Their silent tongues to heaven did vengeance cry,
Who heard their cause, and wrongs judg'd righteously,
And will repay it sevenfold in my lap,
This is fore-runner of my after clap,
Not took I warning by my neighbours falls,
I saw sad Germanie's dismantled walls.
I saw her people famish'd, Nobles slain,
Her fruitfull land, a barren heath remain.
I saw (unmov'd) her Armies foil'd and fled,
Wives forc'd, babes toss'd, her houses calcined,
I saw strong Rochel yeelding to her foe,
Thousands of starved Christi ns there also.
I saw poore Ireland bleeding out her last,
Such cruelty as all reports have past.
My heart obdurate, stood not yet agast.
Now sip I of that cup, and just 't may be,
The bottome dregs reserved are for me.
To all you've said, sad mother, I assent
Your fearfull sinnes, great cause there's to lament,
My guilty hands (in part) hold up with you,
A sharer in your punishment's my due,
But all you say, amounts to this effect,
Not what you feel, but what you do expect.
Pray in plain termes, what is your present grief,
Then let's join heads, and hands for your relief.