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With the main Henry sped,
Amongst his henchmen.

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,
Armour on armour shone,
Drum now to drum did groan,
To hear was wonder;

That with the cries they make,
The very earth did shake,
Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham,
Which did the signal aim
To our hid forces;

When from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery

Stuck the French horses.

With Spanish yew so strong,
Arrows a cloth-yard long,
That like to serpents stung,

Piercing the weather;
None from his fellow starts,
But playing manly parts,

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And like true English hearts,

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Oh, when shall Englishmen

With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry!

I 20

Michael Drayton.



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:
Minds that are great and free,

Should not on Fortune pause;


'Tis crown enough to Virtue still, her own applause.

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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
To that strumpet the stage,

But sing high and aloof,

Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull ass's






Ben Jonson.

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,
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,
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!
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.

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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,
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.
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,
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,
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,
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.







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