Why art thou troubled, Herod ? what vain fear
Thy blood-revolving breast to rage doth move?
Heaven's King, who doffs himself weak flesh to wear,
Comes not to rule in wrath, but serve in love;

Nor would he this thy fear'd crown from thee tear,
But give thee a better with himself above.

Poor Jealousy! why should he wish to prey
Upon thy crown, who gives his own away.

Make to thy reason, man; and mock thy doubts
Look how below thy fears their causes are;
Thou art a soldier, Herod; send thy scouts,
See how he's furnish'd for so fear'd a war.
What armour does he wear? a few thin clouts;
His trumpets? tender cries; his men, to dare

;

So much? rude shepherds; what his steeds? alas,
Poor beasts! a slow ox, and a simple ass.

Translated from Marino, by R. Crashaw,
Edit. 1670.

FAIR Rosamond within her bower of late
(While these sad storms had shaken Henry's state,
And he from England last had absent been)
Retir'd herself; nor had that star been seen
To shine abroad, or with her lustre grace
The woods or walks adjoining to the place.

About those places, while the times were free,
Oft with a train of her attendants she

For pleasure walk'd; and, like the huntress queen,
With her light nymphs, was by the people seen.
Thither the country lads and swains, that near
To Woodstock dwelt, would come to gaze on her,
Their jolly May-games there would they present,
Their harmless sports and rustic merriment,
To give this beauteous paragon delight.
Nor that officious service would she slight;
But their rude pastimes gently entertain.
When oft some forward and ambitious swain,
That durst presume (unhappy lad!) to look
Too near that sparkling beauty, planet-struck

Return'd from thence, and his hard hap did wail.
What now, alas! can wake or fair avail

His love-sick mind? no Whitsun-ale can please,
No jingling Morris-dances give him ease;
The pipe and tabor have no sound at all,
Nor to the may-pole can his measures call;
Although invited by the merriest lasses,
How little for those former joys he passes?
But sits at home with folded arms*; or goes.
To carve on beeches barks his piercing woes,
And too ambitious love. Cupid, they say,
Had stol'n from Venus then: and, lurking, lay
About the fields and villages, that nigh
To Woodstock were, as once in Arcady
He did before, and taught the rural swains
Love's oratory, and persuasive strains.
But now fair Rosamond had from the sight
Of all withdrawn; as in a cloud, her light
Enveloped lay, and she immured close
Within her bower, since these sad stirs arose,
For fear of cruel foes; relying on

The strength and safeguard of the place alone:
If any place of strength enough could be
Against a queen's enraged jealousy.

Now came that fatal day, ordain'd to see
Th' eclipse of beauty, and for ever be

* But sits at home with folded arms.] Shakspeare, who above all others has the power of giving to common circumstances an air the most uncommon, has a pretty image of this kind. Ariel is describing to Prospero in what manner he had executed his orders; amongst other things he adds,

The King's son have I landed by himself,
Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs
In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting
His arms in this sad knot.

Tempest.

Accurs'd by woeful lovers, all alone
Into her chamber Rosamond was gone;
Where (as if Fates into her soul had sent
A secret notice of their dire intent)
Afflicting thoughts possess'd her as she sate.
She sadly weigh'd her own unhappy state,
Her feared dangers, and how far, alas!
From her relief engaged Henry was.

But most of all, while pearly drops distain'd
Her rosy cheeks, she secretly complain'd,
And wail'd her honour's loss, wishing in vain
She could recal her virgin state again *;
When that unblemish'd form †, so much admir'd,
Was by a thousand noble youths deşir'd,
And might have mov'd a monarch's lawful flame.
Sometimes she thought how some more happy dame
By such a beauty, as was hers, had won,

From meanest birth, the honour of a throne;
And what to some could highest glories gain,

To her had purchas'd nothing but a stain.

There, when she found her crime, she check'd again
That high-aspiring thought, and 'gan complain

How much, alas! the too too dazzling light

Of royal lustre had misled her sight;

wishing in vain

She could recal her virgin state again.] Thus Rowe, in his Jane

Shore:

In vain, with tears, her loss she may deplore;

In vain look back to what she was before.

+ When that unblemish'd form.] Thus Milton, in his Comus:

And thou unblemish'd form of Chastity.

He had originally written,

And thou unspotted form of Chastity.

1.215.

How far this expression of May might influence him in the alteration it is impossible to determine.

O! then she wish'd her beauties ne'er had been
Renown'd*; that she had ne'er at court been seen:
Nor too much pleas'd enamour'd Henry's eye.
While thus she sadly mus'd, a ruthful cry
Had pierc❜d her tender ear, and in the sound
Was nam'd (she thought) unhappy Rosamond.
(The cry was utter'd by her grieved maid,

From whom that clew was taken, that betray'd
Her lady's life), and while she doubting fear'd,
Too soon the fatal certainty appear'd;
For with her train the wrathful queen was there;
Oh! who can tell what cold and killing fear
Through every part of Rosamond was struck ?
The rosy tincture her sweet cheeks forsook †,
And, like an ivory statue did she show
Of life and motion reft, had she been so
Transform'd in deed, how kind the Fates had been,
How pitiful to her! nay, to the queen!

Even she herself did seem to entertain

Some ruth; but straight revenge return'd again,
And fill'd her furious breast.

Strumpet (quoth she),

I need not speak at all; my sight may be
Enough expression of my wrongs, and what
The consequence must prove
of such a hate,

*O! then she wish'd her beauties ne'er had been

Renown'd.] I cannot resist the opportunity of quoting a few
fine lines from Daniel on this occasion, and on this very subject:
Did nature (for this good) ingeniate,
To show in thee the glory of her best;
Framing thine eye the star of thy ill fate,
Making thy face the foe to spoil the rest?
O Beauty, thou an enemy profest

To Chastity, and us, that love thee most,
Without thee how w' are loath'd, and with thee lost?

Complaint of Rosamond.

The rosy tincture her sweet cheeks forsook.] Thus Milton:
What need a vermeil-tinctur'd lip for that. Comus,