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With the main Henry sped,
Exeter had the rear,
A braver man not there,
O Lord! how hot they were
On the false Frenchmen!
They now to fight are gone,
That with the cries they make,
Well it thine age became,
When from a meadow by,
Stuck the French horses.
With Spanish yew so strong,
Piercing the weather;
And like true English hearts,
Oh, when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,
Where dost thou careless lie,
Buried in ease and sloth? Knowledge, that sleeps, doth die;
And this security,
It is the common moth
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!
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:
Should not on Fortune pause;
'Tis crown enough to Virtue still, her own applause.
Then take in hand thy lyre,
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
Cannot endure reproof,
Make not thyself a page
But sing high and aloof,
Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull ass's
Hence, all you vain delights,
Wherein you spend your folly !
Oh, sweetest melancholy!
A look that's fastened to the ground,
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
Beaumont and Fletcher.
LEWD LOVE IS LOSS.
Misdeeming eye! that stoopeth to the lure
That do thy erring thoughts from God remove.
If picture move, more should the pattern please;
Sith reap thou may'st whole harvests of delight;
Let not the luring train of fancies trap,
Or gracious features, proofs of Nature's skill,
Or draw thy wit to bent of wanton will.