The Complaint Of Edricus. Poem by Thomas Blenerhasset

You hellish hagges of Limbo Lake belowe,
Which dayly doo my cursed corps torment,
Come forth, come forth, come forth, (I say) and shewe
Howe I on earth my dismal dayes haue spent.
And wil you not you wretched wightes assent
To helpe me here to tell that drierie tale,
Which may amongst men liuing much preuayle?

O cursed ghost condemde to endelesse thral,
Sith they refuse to aide thee in this neede,
Doo thou declare and tel the truth of al,
That men aliue my wretched woorkes may reade,
And see the fruite of suttle Satans seede,
Auoyding vice, and fancies fonde delight,
Note wel my tale, the truth I shal recite.

When Etheldrede had geuen Canutus place,
Edmunde his sonne surnamed Ironside,
Deuising howe he might his foe deface,
By wrath of warre the cause they did decide:
And in the ende the Realme they did deuide.
Edmunde had halfe, Canutus had the rest,
Then they with peace and quietnesse were blest.

O blinde beleefe, O hope of higher hope,
Why did you moue my minde to meditate,
Howe I in woe king Edmunde might inwrap,
And howe I might depresse my kinges estate?
Thou blinde beleefe, thou breeder of debate,
I wanting grace did let thee moue my minde,
Causlesse to kil a courteous king, and kinde.

He being kilde, I to Canutus went,
To whom I sayd, See here a faythful friend,
I for thy loue with bloody blade haue bent
And brought my king to his vntimely ende,
Thou by that meanes shalt rule thy realme with rest,
My friendly fist with happie good succese
Hath thee inricht with blisse and happinesse.

Hast thou (quoth he) destroyde thy souerayn king?
Thou faythlesse fauning friende, for loue of me?
Thou verlet vile, and couldste thou doo the thing
The which might more abridge my libertie?
O heynous acte, O bloody crueltie.
But sith that loue did moue thee doo that deede,
Thou for thy paynes shalt be preferde with speede.

Wherwith in hast he to the hangman said,
Let this mans head the hyghest place obtayne
On London walles: wherewith I neuer stayde,
But on a blocke my necke was cut in twayne,
In all mens sighte, my head did long remayne.
See here what wit the grape of hope dooth yeeld,
See on what sand such busie braynes do builde.

O hateful thing that fancies fonde delight,
The sense of mortal man should senselesse make.
When vices vaunts with vertues deedes dare fyght,
Then dooth the soule the happie heauens forsake,
Then man makes hast to Plutoes lothsome lake.
Why should man loue that sugered sowre sweete,
Which wisedoms lore to lothe hath thought most meete?