M O R T I M E R
H I S
F A L L.
G g g g
M O R T I M E R.
His Rise is made yet! and we now stand rank'd,
To view about us, all that were above us!
Nought hinders now our prospect, all are even,
We walk upon a Level. Mortimer
Is a great Lord of late, and a new thing! —
Earl, and Cousin to the King.
At what a divers price, do divers Men
Act the same things! Another might have had
Perhaps the Hurdle, or at least the Ax,
For what I have this Crownet, Robes, and Wax.
There is a Fate, that flies with towring Spirits
Home to the Mark, and never checks at Conscience.
Poor plodding Priests, and preaching Friars may make
Their hollow Pulpits, and the empty Iles
Of Churches ring with that round word: But we
That draw the subtile, and more piercing Air,
In that sublimed Region of Court,
Know all is good, we make so, and go on
Secur'd by the prosperity of our Crimes.
To day is Mortimer made Earl of March.
For what? For that, the very thinking it
Would make a Citizen start! some politick Tradesman
Curl with the Caution of a Constable!
But I, who am no Common-Council-Man,
Knew, Injuries of that dark Nature done
Were to be throughly done, and not be left
To fear of a Revenge. They are light Offences
Which admit that. The great ones get above it.
Man doth not nurse a deadlier piece of Folly
To his high Temper, and brave Soul, than that
Of fancying Goodness, and a Seal to live by
So differing from Man's Life. As if with Lyons,
Bears, Tygers, Woolves, and all those Beasts of Prey,
He would affect to be a Sheep! Can Man
Neglect what is, so, to attain what should be,
As rather he will call on his own Ruin,
Than work t' assure his safety? I should think
When 'mongst a World of bad, none can be good,
(I mean so absolutely good, and perfect,
As our Religious Confessors would have us)
It is enough, we do decline the Rumour
Of doing monstrous things: And yet, if those
Were of Emolument, unto our Ends,
Even of those, the Wise Man will make Friends
For all the Brand, and safely do the ill.
As Usurers rob, or our Physicians kill.
I S A B E L. M O R T I M E R.
My Lord! sweet Mortimer! Mor. My Q. my Mistris!
My Soveraign! nay, my Goddess! and my Juno!
What Name, or Title, as a Mark of Power
Upon me, should I give you? Isa. Isabel,
Your Isabel, and you my Mortimer:
Which are the Marks of Parity, not Power,
And these are Titles best become our Love.
Mor. Can you fall under those? Isa. Yes, and be happy.
Walk forth, my lov'd, and gentle Mortimer,
And let my longing Eyes enjoy their Feast,
And fill of thee, my fair-shap'd, God-like Man:
Thou art a Banquet unto all my Senses;
Thy Form doth feast mine Eye, thy Voice mine Ear,
Thy Breath my Smell, thy every Kiss my Taste,
And softness of thy Skin, my very Touch:
As if I felt it dactile through my Blood.
I ne'er was reconciled to these Robes,
This Garb of England, till I saw thee in them.
Thou mak'st, they seem not boisterous, nor rude,
Like my rough haughty Lords de Engle-terre,
With whom I have so many Years been troubled.
Mor. But now redeem'd, and set at liberty,
Queen of your self, and them.
He dy'd, and left it unfinished.