Pursue the gentle hinde from place to place. From hence recalling my weake wandring eye, I gan behold that kingly palace by, Whose loftie towres built vp of ancient time By worthie princes, to the stars do clime; Proud, that so many a prince to do them grace, Beneath their roofe had made their resting place. Fast by this princely house, afront before Thames gliding waues do wash the sandie shore, Whose fruitfull streames with winding in and out, Forcing their way through hollow lands about, From th’occidentall with swift course do run, Where Hesper bright brings vp the golden sun: And on the siluer brest of this great lord Of all the deepes, that Albion’s wombe doth hoard, Downe from the easterne seas I might descrie Many swift-winged barkes, that seem’d to flie, Cutting their passage through the threatning waue, That 'bout their sides in vaine did rore and raue; With swelling sailes, not fearing sad mischance, Each after other came in stately dance, And nimblie capring on the purple waue, With loftie foretops did the welkin braue, Vntill they came vnto that stately place Fam’d for the birth of great _Elizae’s_ grace: To which they vail’d their towring tops before, And from their sides the thundring cannons rore Flew as a witnesse of their loyaltie And loue vnto that house of maiestie; From thence full fraught with many a precious prise They sail’d along, whereas the passage lies To Troynouant, whose pride of youthfull lust The hand of death had smothered in the dust; The smiling heau’ns, that with sweet sunshine howres Did once vouchsafe t’adorne her hie topt towres, Now with grim lookes, which did my heart appall, Did seeme to threaten her approching fall: Downe from their cloudie browes in threatning pride, Death-darting pestilence did seeme to slide: Grim-visag’d-like the grizly dreaded night, In noysome fumes and mistie fogs bedight: The aire once pure and thin, now wing’d with death Grewe gloomie thick, being poyson’d by her breath, In which, I thought, she took her horrid stand, And with fierce look and stiff-bent bowe in hand, She drew her shafts, impatient in her minde, From forth her quiuer at her back behinde: Then did I thinke vpon the shreekes and cries Of dying soules, that did ascend the skies By thousands sent vnto the gaping graue, On whom no mercie pestilence would haue: Yea then (thou glorie of great Albion) Thy sad distresse I gan to thinke vpon, Thy mournefull widowes groueling in sad swound On their dead husbands, on the ashie ground, Thy husbands striuing to preserue the breath Of their deare spouse from vnrelenting death; Thy orphans left poore, parentlesse, alone The future time’s sad miserie to mone: The thought of which, in that vnhappie season