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Then, diaper'd with golden twine,
Aloft a mantle

green

she had, Wherein were wrought, with rarest skill,

Fair cities, castles, rivers, woods, And here and there emboss'd a hill,

With fountains, and the Nymphs of floods.

A massy collar, set with stones,

Did over all itself extend,
Whereon, in sparkling diamonds,

Saint George, her patron, did depend.
A crown imperial on her head;

One hand a bright drawn sword did hold; The other (most that made her dread)

Three sceptres of the finest gold.

While proudly under foot she trod

Rich trophies and victorious spoils, Atchieved by her might abroad,

Her name is EMPRESS OF THE ILES, There chariots were, that once she wan

From Cæsar, ere she was betray'd, With standards, got from Pagans whan

She lent the Holy land her aid.

Here saw I many a shiver'd lance,

Swords, battle-axes, cannons, slings;

Where conscience judgeth plainly,
They spend no money vainly.

O happy who thus liveth,

Not caring much for gold;
With clothing, which sufficeth

To keep him from the cold.
Though poor and plain his diet,
Yet merry it is and quiet.

[At an annual Triumph, held in honour of Queen Elizabeth,

Nov. 17, 1590, in the Tilt-yard, Westminster, the following verses were "pronounced and sung by M. Hales, her “ Majesty's servant, a gentleman in that art excellent, and “ for his voice both commendable and admirable.” Segar's “ Honor, Military and Civill,” 1602. fol. c. 54. p. 198.]

My golden locks time hath to silver turn'd,

(Oh time too swift, and swiftness never ceasing !) My youth 'gainst age, and age at youth hath

spurn'd, But spurn'd in vain : youth waneth by increa

sing Beauty, and strength, and youth, flowers fading been, Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.

My helmet now shall make an hive for bees,

And lovers' songs shall turn to holy psalms :

A man at arms must now sit on his knees,

And feed on prayers, that are old age's alms.
And so from court to cottage I depart;
My saint is sure of mine unspotted heart.

And when I sadly sit in homely cell,
I'll teach

my

swains this carol for a song: « Blest be the hearts that think my sovereign well, • Curs'd be the souls that think to do her

“ wrong." Goddess ! vouchsafe this aged man his right, To be your beadsman now, that was your knight.

Wodenfride's Song in Praise of Amargana.

[From England's Helicon.]

The sun, the season, in each thing
Revives new pleasures; the sweet spring
Hath put to flight the winter keen,
To glad our lovely summer queen.

The paths where Amargana treads
With flowery tapestries Flora spreads,
And nature clothes the ground in green,
To glad our lovely summer queen.

The groves put on their rich array,
With hawthorn-blooms embroider'd gay,
And sweet perfum'd with eglantine,
To glad our lovely summer queen.

The silent river stays his course,
Whilst playing on the crystal source
The silver-scaled fish are seen,
To glad our lovely summer queen.

The woods at her fair sight rejoices,
The little birds with their loud voices
In concert on the briars been,
To glad our lovely summer queen.

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Great Pan, our god, for her dear sake,
This feast and meeting bids us make,
Of shepherds, lads, and lasses sheen,
To glad our lovely summer queen.

And
every

swain his chance doth prove,
To win fair Amargana's love,
In sporting strifes, quite void of spleen,
To glad our lovely summer queen.

All happiness let heaven her lend,
And all the graces her attend;
Thus bid me pray the Muses nine,
Long live our lovely summer queen.

W. H[UNNIS?] Tityrus to his fair Phillis.

[From England's Helicon.)

THE silly swain, whose love breeds discontent,
Thinks death a trifle, life a loathsome thing;

Sad he looks, sad he lies :
But when his fortune's malice doth relent,
Then of love's sweetness he will sweetly sing;

Thus he lives, thus he dies.

Then Tityrus, whom love hath happy made,
Will rest thrice happy in this myrtle shade:

For though love at first did grieve him,
Yet did love at last relieve him.

J. D[avis ?]

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