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Man-entered thus, he waxed like a
sea; And, in the brunt of seventeen bat
tles since, He lurched all swords o' the garland. For this last, Before and in Corioli, let me say, I cannot speak him home. He
stopped the fliers; And, by his rare example, made the
coward Turn terror into sport: as waves be
fore A vessel under sail, so men obeyed, And fell below his stem: his sword
(death's stamp), Where it did mark it took; from
face to foot He was a thing of blood, whose every
motion Was timed with dying cries; alone
he entered The mortal gate o' the city, which
he painted With shunless destiny, aidless came
off, And with a sudden re-enforcement
struck Corioli, like a planet: now all's his: When by and by the din of war’gan
pierce His ready sense: then straight his
doubled spirit Re-quickened what in flesh was fati
gate, And to the battle came he; where
he did Run reeking o'er the lives of men,
as if 'Twere a perpetual spoil; and till we
called Both field and city ours, he never
stood To ease his breast with panting.
Our spoils he kicked at, And looked upon things precious, as
they were The common muck o' the world; he
covets less Than misery itself would give; re
wards His deeds with doing them; and is
content To spend the time to end it. His nature is too noble for the
world: He would not flatter Neptune for his
Coriolanus. Hear'st thou, Mars!
thou boy of tears
made my heart Too great for what contains it. Boy!
O slave! Pardon me, lords, 'tis the first time
that ever I was forced to scold. Your judg
ments, my grave lords, Must give this cur the lie: and his
own notion (Who wears my stripes impressed on
him; that must bear My beating to his grave) shall join to
thrust The lie unto him. Cut me to pieces, Volsces; men and
lads, Stain all your edges on me. - Boy!
False hound! If you have writ your annals true,
'tis there, That like an eagle in a dove-cote, I Fluttered your Volsces in Corioli: Alone I did it. — Boy!
THE BLACK PRINCE.
French King. — Think we King
Harry strong; And, princes, look you strongly arm
to meet him. The kindred of him hath been
fleshed upon us; And he is bred out of that bloody
strain, That haunted usinour familiar paths: Witness our too much memorable
shame, When Cressy battle fatally was struck, And all our princes captived, by the
Of that black name, Edward, black
prince of Wales; Whiles that his mountain sire, on
mountain standing, Up in the air, crowned with a golden
sun, Saw his heroical seed, and smiled to
see him Mangle the work of nature, and deface The patterns that by God and by
French fathers Had twenty years been made. This
is a stem Of that victorious stock; and let us
fear The native mightiness and fate of him.
List his discourse of war, and you
shall hear A fearful battle rendered you in
music: Turn him to any cause of policy, The Gordian knot of it he will un
loose, Familiar as his garter; that, when
he speaks, The air, a chartered libertine, is
And the mute wonder lurketh in
men's ears, To steal his sweet and honeyed sen
tences; So that the air and practic part of
life Must be the mistress to this theoric: Which is a wonder, how his grace
should glean it, Since his addiction was to courses
vain : His companies unlettered, rude, and
shallow; His hours filled up with riots, ban
quets, sports, And never noted in him any study, Any retirement, any sequestration From open haunts and popularity.
SPENSER AT COURT.
Canterbury. The king is full of
grace and fair regard. Ely. — And a true lover of the
holy church. Cant. - The courses of his youth
promised it not. The breath no sooner left his father's
body, But that his wildness, mortified in
him, Seerned to die too; yea, at that very
moment, Consideration like an angel came, And whipped the offending Adam
out of him; Leaving his body as a paradise, To envelop and contain celestial
spirits. Never was such a sudden scholar
made: Never came reformation in a flood, With such a heady current, scouring
faults; Nor never hydra-headed wilfulness S) soon did lose his seat, and all at
once, As in this king. Hear him but reason in divinity, And, all-admiring, with an inward
wish You would desire, the king were
made a prelate; Hear him debate of cominonwealth
affairs, You would say, -it hath been all
in-all his study:
FULL little knowest thou, that hast
not tried, What hell it is, in suing long to bide: To loose good dayes that might be
better spent; To waste long nights in pensive dis
content; To speed to-day, to be put back to
morrow; To feed on hope, to pine with feare
and sorrow; To have thy prince's grace, yet want
her peers, To have thy asking, yet waite many
yeares; To fret thy soule with crosses and
with cares; To eate thy heart through comfort
less despairs; To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride,
to run, To spend, to give, to want, to be undone.
ON LUCY, COUNTESS OF BED
holy fire, I thought to form unto my zealous
Muse What kind of creature I could most
desire To honor, serve, and love, as poets use. I meant to make her fair, and free,
and wise, Of greatest blood, and yet more
good than great; I meant the Day-Star should not
brighter rise, Nor lend like influence from his lu
cent seat. I meant she should be courteous,
facile, sweet, Hating that solemn vice of great
ness, pride; I meant each softest virtue there
should meet Fit in that softer bosom to reside. Only a learned and a manly soul I purposed her, that should, with
even powers, The rock, the spindle, and the shears
control Of Destiny, and spin her own free
hours. Such when I meant to feign, and
wished to see, My Muse bade Bedford write, and that was she.
EPITAPH ON SAAKSPEARE. What needs my Shakspeare for his
honored bones, The labor of an age in piled stones? Or that his hallowed relics should
be hid Under a star-y-pointing pyramid ? Dear son of Memory, great heir of
fame, What need'st thou such weak wit
ness of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonish
ment Hast built thyself a live long monu
ment. For whilst, to the shame of slow
endeavoring art Thy easy numbers flow, and that
each heart Hath from the leaves of thy un
valued book Those Delphic lines with deep im
pression took, Then thou, our fancy of itself be
reaving, Dost make us marble with too much
conceiving; And so sepulchred in such pomp
dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
A SWEET, attractive kind of grace,
A full assurance given by looks, Continual comfort in a face, The lineaments of Gospel books! I trow, that countenance cannot
lie Whose thoughts are legible in
UNDERNEATH this stone doth lye
TRANSLATION OF COWLEY'S EPIGRAM ON FRANCIS DRAKE.
Was ever eye did see that face,
Was ever ear did hear that tongue, Was ever mind did mind his grace That ever thought the travel long? But eyes and ears, and every
thought, Were with his sweet perfections caught.
THE stars above will make thee
TO WILLIAM SIDNEY, ON HIS
. UNDERNEATH this sable hearse Lies the subject of all verse, Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother. Death! ere thou hast killed another Fair, and learned, and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee.
UVEDALE, thou piece of the first
times, a man Made for what Nature could, or
Virtue can; Both whose dimensions lost, the
world might find Restored in thy body, and thy mind! Who sees a soul in such a body set, Might love the treasure for the cabi
net. But I, no child, no fool, respect the
kind The full, the glowing graces there
enshrined, Which, (would the world not miscall
it flattery,) I could adore, almost to idolatry.
Give me my cup, but from the Thes
pian well, That I may tell to Sidney, what This day doth say, And he may think on that Which I do tell When all the noise Of these forced joys Are fled and gone, And he with his best genius left alone, 'Twill be exacted of your name whose
son, Whose nephew, whose grandchild
you are; And men will then Say you have followed far, When well begun: Which must be now: they teach you
how; And he that stays To live until to-morrow, hath lost
two days. Then The birthday shines, when logs not burn, but men.
PRAYER TO BEN JONSON.
The golden pomp is come;
For now each tree does wear, Made of her pap and gum,
Rich beads of amber here.
Now reigns the Rose, and now
The Arabian dew besmears My uncontrolled brow,
And my retorted hairs. Homer! this health to thee,
In sack of such a kind, That it would make thee see,
Though thou wert ne'er so blind. Next, Virgil l'll call forth,
To pledge this second health
An Indian commonwealth.
SONNET. ON HIS BEING ARRIVED TO THE AGE
OF TWENTY-THREE. How soon hath Time, the subtle
thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three and
twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full
career, But my late spring no bud or
blossom show'th. Perhaps my sembiance might deceive
the truth, That I to manhood am arrived so
near, And inward ripeness doth much
less appear, That some more timely-happy
spirits indu'th. Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest meas
ure even To that same lot, however mean
or high, Toward which Time leads me, and
the will of Heaven: All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great Task-master's eye.
A goblet next I'll drink
To Ovid; and suppose
The world had all one nose.
Of aromatic wine, Catullus, I quaff up
To that terse muse of thine. Wild I am now with heat,
O Bacchus! cool thy rays; Or frantic I shall eat
Thy Thyrse, and bite the Bays. Round, round, the roof does run;
And being ravisht thus, Come, I will drink a tun
To my Propertius. Now, to Tibullus next,
This flood I drink to thee; But stay, I see a text,
That this presents to me. Behold! Tibullus lies
Here burnt, whose small return
To fill a little urn.
They only will aspire,
Are lost in the funeral fire.
In Lethe, to be drowned;
ODE TO BEN JONSON.
Made at the Sun,
And yet each verse of thine Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
Or send to us
But teach us yet Wisely to husband it, Lest we that talent spend: And having once brought to an end
That precious stock, the store Of such a wit, the world should have no more.