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Then, diaper'd with golden twine,
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,
Saint George, her patron, did depend.
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,
O happy who thus liveth,
Not caring much for gold;
To keep him from the cold.
[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 when I sadly sit in homely cell,
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
The paths where Amargana treads
The groves put on their rich array,
The silent river stays his course,
The woods at her fair sight rejoices,
Great Pan, our god, for her dear sake,
swain his chance doth prove,
All happiness let heaven her lend,
W. H[UNNIS?] Tityrus to his fair Phillis.
[From England's Helicon.)
THE silly swain, whose love breeds discontent,
Sad he looks, sad he lies :
Thus he lives, thus he dies.
Then Tityrus, whom love hath happy made,
For though love at first did grieve him,
J. D[avis ?]