When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell:
No less our skill is,
Than when our grandsire great, 45
Claiming the regal seat
By many a warlike feat,
Lopped the French lilies.’
The Duke of York so dread,
The eager vaward led; 50
With the main Henry sped,
Amongst his henchmen.
Exeter had the rear,
A braver man not there,
O Lord! how hot they were 55
On the false Frenchmen!
They now to fight are gone,
Armour on armour shone,
Drum now to drum did groan,
To hear was wonder; 60
That with the cries they make,
The very earth did shake,
Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became, 65
O noble Erpingham
Which did the signal aim
To our hid forces;
When from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly, 70
The English archery
Stuck the French horses.
With Spanish yew so strong,
Arrows a cloth-yard long,
That like to serpents stung, 75
Piercing the weather;
None from his fellow starts,
But playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts,
Stuck close together. 80
When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilbows drew,
And on the French they flew;
Not one was tardy;
Arms were from shoulders sent; 85
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went,
Our men were hardy.
This while our noble king,
His broad sword brandishing, 90
Down the French host did ding,
As to o’erwhelm it;
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent 95
Bruisèd his helmet.
Gloucester, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood,
With his brave brother; 100
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight
Scarce such another.
Warwick in blood did wade, 105
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,
Still as they ran up;
Suffolk his axe did ply,
Beaumont and Willoughby 110
Bare them right doughtily,
Ferrers and Fanhope.
Upon Saint Crispin’s day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay 115
To England to carry.
Oh, when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry! 120
_Michael Drayton._
XLII
_TO HIMSELF._
Where dost thou careless lie,
Buried in ease and sloth?
Knowledge, that sleeps, doth die;
And this security,
It is the common moth 5
That eats on wits and arts, and [so] destroys them both.
Are all the Aonian springs
Dried up? lies Thespia waste?
Doth Clarius’ harp want strings,
That not a nymph now sings! 10
Or droop they as disgraced,
To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies defaced?
If hence thy silence be,
As ’tis too just a cause,
Let this thought quicken thee: 15
Minds that are great and free,
Should not on Fortune pause;
’Tis crown enough to Virtue still, her own applause.
What though the greedy fry
Be taken with false baits 20
Of worded balladry,
And think it poesy?
They die with their conceits,
And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits.
Then take in hand thy lyre, 25
Strike in thy proper strain,
With Japhet’s line, aspire
Sol’s chariot for new fire,
To give the world again:
Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove’s brain.
And since our dainty age 31
Cannot endure reproof,
Make not thyself a page
To that strumpet the stage,
But sing high and aloof, 35
Safe from the wolf’s black jaw, and the dull ass’s hoof.
_Ben Jonson._
XLIII
_MELANCHOLY._
Hence, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There’s nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see’t, 5
But only melancholy,
Oh, sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms, and fixèd eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that’s fastened to the ground, 10
A tongue chained up without a sound!
Fountain-heads, and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls! 15
A midnight bell, a parting groan!
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;
Nothing’s so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
_Beaumont and Fletcher._
XLIV
_LEWD LOVE IS LOSS._
Misdeeming eye! that stoopeth to the lure
Of mortal worths, not worth so worthy love;
All beauty’s base, all graces are impure,
That do thy erring thoughts from God remove.
Sparks to the fire, the beams yield to the sun, 5
All grace to God, from whom all graces run.
If picture move, more should the pattern please;
No shadow can with shadowed thing compare,
And fairest shapes, whereon our loves do seize,
But silly signs of God’s high beauty are. 10
Go, starving sense, feed thou on earthly mast;
True love, in heaven seek thou thy sweet repast.
Glean not in barren soil these offal ears,
Sith reap thou may’st whole harvests of delight;
Base joys with griefs, bad hopes do end with fears, 15
Lewd love with loss, evil peace with deadly fight:
God’s love alone doth end with endless ease,
Whose joys in hope, whose hope concludes in peace.
Let not the luring train of fancies trap,
Or gracious features, proofs of Nature’s skill, 20
Lull Reason’s force asleep in Error’s lap,
Or draw thy wit to bent of wanton will.
The fairest flowers have not the sweetest smell;
A seeming heaven proves oft a damning hell.
Self-pleasing souls, that play with beauty’s bait, 25
In shining shroud may swallow fatal hook;
Where eager sight on semblant fair doth wait,
A lock it proves, that first was but a look:
The fish with ease into the net doth glide,
But to get out the way is not so wide. 30
So long the fly doth dally with the flame,
Until his singèd wings do force his fall;
So long the eye doth follow fancy’s game,
Till love hath left the heart in heavy thrall.
Soon may the mind be cast in Cupid’s jail, 35
But hard it is imprisoned thoughts to bail.
Oh! loathe that love whose final aim is lust,
Moth of the mind, eclipse of reason’s light;
The grave of grace, the mole of Nature’s rust,
The wrack of wit, the wrong of every right; 40
In sum, an ill whose harms no tongue can tell;
In which to live is death, to die is hell.
_Robert Southwell._
XLV
_TO THE WORLD. A FAREWELL FOR A GENTLEWOMAN, VIRTUOUS AND NOBLE._
False world, good night, since thou hast brought
That hour upon my morn of age,
Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,
My part is ended on thy stage.
Do not once hope, that thou canst tempt 5
A spirit so resolved to tread
Upon thy throat, and live exempt
From all the nets that thou canst spread.
I know thy forms are studied arts,
Thy subtil ways be narrow straits; 10
Thy courtesy but sudden starts,
And what thou call’st thy gifts, are baits.
I know too, though thou strut and paint,
Yet art thou both shrunk up and old;
That only fools make thee a saint, 15
And all thy good is to be sold.
I know thou whole art but a shop
Of toys and trifles, traps and snares,
To take the weak, or make them stop:
Yet art thou falser than thy wares. 20
And, knowing this, should I yet stay,
Like such as blow away their lives,
And never will redeem a day,
Enamoured of their golden gyves?
Or having ’scaped, shall I return, 25
And thrust my neck into the noose,
From whence so lately I did burn
With all my powers myself to loose?
What bird or beast is known so dull,
That fled his cage, or broke his chain, 30
And tasting air and freedom, wull
Render his head in there again?
If these who have but sense, can shun
The engines that have them annoyed;
Little for me had reason done, 35
If I could not thy gins avoid.
Yes, threaten, do. Alas, I fear
As little, as I hope from thee:
I know thou canst nor show, nor bear
More hatred than thou hast to me. 40
My tender, first, and simple years
Thou didst abuse, and then betray;
Since stirr’dst up jealousies and fears,
When all the causes were away.
Then in a soil hast planted me, 45
Where breathe the basest of thy fools;
Where envious arts professèd be,
And pride and ignorance the schools:
Where nothing is examined, weighed;
But as ’tis rumoured, so believed; 50
Where every freedom is betrayed,
And every goodness taxed or grieved.
But what we’re born for, we must bear:
Our frail condition it is such,
That what to all may happen here, 55
If’t chance to me, I must not grutch,
Else I my state should much mistake,
To harbour a divided thought
From all my kind: that for my sake
There should a miracle be wrought. 60
No! I do know that I was born
To age, misfortune, sickness, grief:
But I will bear these with that scorn,
As shall not need thy false relief.
Nor for my peace will I go far, 65
As wanderers do, that still do roam;
But make my strengths, such as they are,
Here in my bosom, and at home.
_Ben Jonson._
XLVI
_TO THE MEMORY OF BEN JONSON._
The Muses’ fairest light in no dark time,
The wonder of a learnèd age; the line
Which none can pass; the most proportioned wit
To nature, the best judge of what was fit;
The deepest, plainest, highest, clearest pen; 5
The voice most echoed by consenting men;
The soul which answered best to all well said
By others, and which most requital made;
Tuned to the highest key of ancient Rome,
Returning all her music with his own; 10
In whom with nature study claimed a part,
And yet who to himself owed all his art:
Here lies Ben Jonson! every age will look
With sorrow here, with wonder on his book.
_John Cleveland._
XLVII
_A CONTENTED MIND._
I weigh not fortune’s frown or smile;
I joy not much in earthly joys;
I seek not state, I seek not style;
I am not fond of fancy’s toys;
I rest so pleased with what I have, 5
I wish no more, no more I crave.
I quake not at the thunder’s crack;
I tremble not at noise of war;
I swound not at the news of wrack;
I shrink not at a blazing star; 10
I fear not loss, I hope not gain,
I envy none, I none disdain.
I see ambition never pleased;
I see some Tantals starved in store;
I see gold’s dropsy seldom eased; 15
I see e’en Midas gape for more:
I neither want, nor yet abound--
Enough’s a feast, content is crowned.
I feign not friendship, where I hate;
I fawn not on the great in show; 20
I prize, I praise a mean estate--
Neither too lofty nor too low:
This, this is all my choice, my cheer--
A mind content, a conscience clear.
_Joshua Sylvester._
XLVIII
_SONNET._
Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
Fooled by these rebel powers that thee array,
Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease, 5
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess.
Eat up thy charge? is this thy body’s end?
Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store; 10
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more:--
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men;
And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.
_William Shakespeare._
XLIX
_SONNET._
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
Enjoyed no sooner than despisèd straight; 5
Past reason hunted; and no sooner had,
Past reason hated, as a swallowed bait,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad:
Mad in pursuit, and in possession so;
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme; 10
A bliss in proof--and proved, a very woe;
Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream:
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
_William Shakespeare._
L
_TIMES GO BY TURNS._
The loppèd tree in time may grow again;
Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower;
The sorriest wight may find release of pain,
The driest soil suck in some moistening shower;
Times go by turns, and chances change by course, 5
From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.
The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow,
She draws her favours to the lowest ebb;
Her tides have equal times to come and go;
Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web; 10
No joy so great but runneth to an end,
No hap so hard but may in fine amend.
Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring;
No endless night, yet not eternal day;
The saddest birds a season find to sing; 15
The roughest storm a calm may soon allay;
Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all,
That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.
A chance may win that by mischance was lost;
That net that holds no great, takes little fish; 20
In some things all, in all things none are crossed;
Few all they need, but none have all they wish;
Unmeddled joys here to no man befall,
Who least hath some, who most hath never all.
_Robert Southwell._
LI
_LIFE A BUBBLE._
This Life, which seems so fair,
Is like a bubble blown up in the air,
By sporting children’s breath,
Who chase it everywhere,
And strive who can most motion it bequeath; 5
And though it sometimes seem of its own might
Like to an eye of gold to be fixed there,
And firm to hover in that empty height,
That only is because it is so light.
But in that pomp it doth not long appear; 10
For when ’tis most admirèd, in a thought,
Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought.
_William Drummond._
LII
_MAN’S MORTALITY._
Like as the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossom on the tree,
Or like the dainty flower in May,
Or like the morning of the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade, 5
Or like the gourd which Jonas had--
E’en such is man; whose thread is spun,
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.
The rose withers; the blossom blasteth;
The flower fades; the morning hasteth; 10
The sun sets, the shadow flies;
The gourd consumes; and man he dies!
Like to the grass that’s newly sprung,
Or like a tale that’s new begun,
Or like the bird that’s here to day, 15
Or like the pearlèd dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan--
E’en such is man; who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life, and death. 20
The grass withers, the tale is ended;
The bird is flown, the dew’s ascended;
The hour is short, the span is long;
The swan’s near death; man’s life is done!
_Simon Wastell._
LIII
_OF MY DEAR SON GERVASE BEAUMONT._
Can I, who have for others oft compiled
The songs of death, forget my sweetest child,
Which, like the flower crusht, with a blast is dead,
And ere full time hangs down his smiling head,
Expecting with clear hope to live anew, 5
Among the angels fed with heavenly dew?
We have this sign of joy, that many days,
While on the earth his struggling spirit stays,
The name of Jesus in his mouth contains
His only food, his sleep, his ease from pains. 10
Oh! may that sound be rooted in my mind,
Of which in him such strong effect I find.
Dear Lord, receive my son, whose winning love
To me was like a friendship, far above
The course of nature, or his tender age; 15
Whose looks could all my bitter griefs assuage;
Let his pure soul, ordained seven years to be
In that frail body, which was part of me,
Remain my pledge in heaven, as sent to show,
How to this port at every step I go. 20
_Sir John Beaumont._
LIV
_DIRGE._
Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must, 5
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o’ the great,
Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak: 10
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash; 15
Thou hast finished joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee! 20
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renownèd be thy grave!
_William Shakespeare._
LV
_ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY._
Mortality, behold and fear!
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within these heaps of stones;
Here they lie, had realms and lands, 5
Who now want strength to stir their hands,
Where from their pulpits sealed with dust
They preach, ‘In greatness is no trust.’
Here’s an acre sown indeed
With the richest royallest seed 10
That the earth did e’er suck in,
Since the first man died for sin:
Here the bones of birth have cried,
‘Though gods they were, as men they died!’
Here are sands, ignoble things, 15
Dropt from the ruined sides of kings:
Here’s a world of pomp and state
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
_Francis Beaumont._
LVI
_DEATH’S FINAL CONQUEST._
Victorious men of earth, no more
Proclaim how wide your empires are;
Though you bind-in every shore
And your triumphs reach as far
As night or day, 5
Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey,
And mingle with forgotten ashes, when
Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.
Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,
Each able to undo mankind, 10
Death’s servile emissaries are;
Nor to these alone confined,
He hath at will
More quaint and subtle ways to kill;
A smile or kiss, as he will use the art, 15
Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.
_James Shirley._
LVII
_THE SAME._
The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and crown 5
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crookèd scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill: 10
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath 15
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow;
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon Death’s purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds: 20
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
_James Shirley._
LVIII
_LINES WRITTEN BY ONE IN THE TOWER, BEING YOUNG AND CONDEMNED TO DIE._
My prime of youth is but a frost of cares;
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain;
My crop of corn is but a field of tares;
And all my good is but vain hope of gain:
The day is [fled], and yet I saw no sun; 5
And now I live, and now my life is done!
The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung;
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green;
My youth is gone, and yet I am but young;
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen: 10
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun;
And now I live, and now my life is done!
I sought my death, and found it in my womb;
I looked for life, and saw it was a shade;
I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb; 15
And now I die, and now I am but made:
The glass is full, and now my glass is run;
And now I live, and now my life is done!
_Chidiock Tychborn._
LIX
_LINES WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS EXECUTION._
E’en such is time; which takes on trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;
Which in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways, 5
Shuts up the story of our days:
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust.
_Sir Walter Raleigh._
LX
_SONNET._
Most glorious Lord of life, that on this day
Didst make thy triumph over death and sin,
And, having harrowed hell, didst bring away
Captivity thence captive, us to win;
This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin, 5
And grant that we, for whom Thou diddest die,
Being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin,
May live for ever in felicity:
And that thy love we weighing worthily,
May likewise love Thee for the same again; 10
And for thy sake, that alllike dear didst buy,
With love may one another entertain.
So let us love, dear Love, like as we ought;
Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.
_Edmund Spenser._
LXI
_THE HEAVENLY JERUSALEM._
Jerusalem, my happy home,
When shall I come to thee?
When shall my sorrows have an end,
Thy joys when shall I see?
O happy harbour of the saints! 5
O sweet and pleasant soil!
In thee no sorrow may be found,
No grief, no care, no toil.
In thee no sickness may be seen,
Nor hurt, nor ache, nor sore; 10
There is no death, nor ugly dole,
But Life for evermore.
There lust and lucre cannot dwell,
There envy bears no sway;
There is no hunger, heat, nor cold, 15
But pleasure every way.
Thy walls are made of precious stones,
Thy bulwarks diamonds square;
Thy gates are of right orient pearl,
Exceeding rich and rare. 20
Thy turrets and thy pinnacles
With carbuncles do shine;
Thy very streets are paved with gold,
Surpassing clear and fine.
Thy houses are of ivory, 25
Thy windows crystal clear;
Thy tiles are made of beaten gold;--
O God, that I were there!
Ah, my sweet home, Jerusalem,
Would God I were in thee! 30
Would God my woes were at an end,
Thy joys that I might see!
Thy saints are crowned with glory great;
They see God face to face;
They triumph still, they still rejoice, 35
Most happy is their case.
We that are here in banishment
Continually do moan,
We sigh, and sob, we weep and wail,
Perpetually we groan. 40
Our sweet is mixed with bitter gall,
Our pleasure is but pain,
Our joys scarce last the looking on,
Our sorrows still remain.
But there they live in such delight, 45
Such pleasure and such play,
As that to them a thousand years
Doth seem as yesterday.
Thy gardens and thy gallant walks
Continually are green; 50
There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers
As nowhere else are seen.
Quite through the streets, with silver sound,
The flood of Life doth flow;
Upon whose banks on every side 55
The wood of Life doth grow.
There trees for evermore bear fruit,
And evermore do spring;
There evermore the angels sit,
And evermore do sing. 60
Jerusalem, my happy home,
Would God I were in thee!
Would God my woes were at an end,
Thy joys that I might see!
_Anon._
PART THE SECOND.
LXII
_THE HAPPY LIFE._
How happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another’s will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!
Whose passions not his masters are, 5
Whose soul is still prepared for death;
Not tied unto the world with care
Of public fame, or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood 10
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good:
Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 15
Nor ruin make accusers great;
Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend; 20
--This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.
_Sir Henry Wotton._
LXIII
_WINIFREDA._
Away, let nought to love displeasing,
My Winifreda, move your care,
Let nought delay the heavenly blessing,
Nor squeamish pride nor gloomy fear.
What though no grants of royal donors 5
With pompous titles grace our blood?
We’ll shine in more substantial honours,
And to be noble we’ll be good.
Our name, while virtue thus we tender,
Will sweetly sound where’er ’tis spoke; 10
And all the great ones, they shall wonder
How they respect such little folk.
What though from fortune’s lavish bounty
No mighty treasures we possess,
We’ll find within our pittance plenty, 15
And be content without excess.
Still shall each returning season
Sufficient for our wishes give;
For we will live a life of reason,
And that’s the only life to live. 20
Through youth and age in love excelling,
We’ll hand in hand together tread;
Sweet smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,
And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed.
How should I love the pretty creatures, 25
While round my knees they fondly clung;
To see them look their mother’s features,
To hear them lisp their mother’s tongue.
And when with envy time transported,
Shall think to rob us of our joys, 30
You’ll in your girls again be courted,
And I’ll go wooing in my boys.
_Anon._
LXIV
_A LECTURE UPON THE SHADOW._
Stand still, and I will read to thee
A lecture, Love, in love’s philosophy.
These three hours that we have spent
Walking here, two shadows went
Along with us, which we ourselves produced: 5
But, now the sun is just above our head,
We do those shadows tread,
And to brave clearness all things are reduced.
So whilst our infant loves did grow,
Disguises did and shadows flow 10
From us and from our cares; but now it is not so.