The Works of Michael Drayton :: :: University of Virginia Library

These Lyrick Pieces, short, and few,
Most worthy Sir, I send to you,
To reade them, be not wearie:
They may become John Hewes his Lyre,
Which oft at Powlsworth by the fire
Hath made us gravely merry.

Beleeve it, he must have the Trick
Of Ryming; with Invention quick,
That should doe Lyricks well:
But how I have done in this kind,
Though in my selfe I cannot find,
Your Judgement best can tell.

Th'old British Bards, upon their Harpes,
For falling Flatts, and rising Sharpes,
That curiously were strung;
To stirre their Youth to Warlike Rage,
Or their wyld Furie to asswage,
In these loose Numbers sung.

No more I for Fooles Censures passe,
Then for the braying of an Asse,
Nor once mine Eare will lend them:
If you but please to take in gree
These Odes, sufficient 'tis to mee;
Your liking can commend them.

Yours, Mich. Drayton.

347

TO HIMSELFE, AND THE HARPE.

And why not I, as hee
That's greatest, if as free,
(In sundry strains that strive,
Since there so many be)
Th'old Lyrick kind revive?

I will, yea, and I may;
Who shall oppose my way?
For what is he alone,
That of himselfe can say,
Hee's Heire of Helicon?

Apollo, and the Nine,
Forbid no Man their Shrine,
That commeth with hands pure;
Else they be so divine,
They will him not indure.

For they be such coy Things,
That they care not for Kings,
And dare let them know it;
Nor may he touch their Springs,
That is not borne a Poet.

The Phocean it did prove,

Pyreneus, King of Phocis, attempting to ravish the Muses.

Whom when foule Lust did move,
Those Mayds unchaste to make,
Fell, as with them he strove,
His Neck and justly brake.

That instrument ne'r heard,
Strooke by the skilfull Bard,
It strongly to awake;
But it th'infernalls skard,
And made Olympus quake.

348

Sam. lib. 1. cap. 16.

As those Prophetike strings
Whose sounds with fiery Wings,
Drave Fiends from their abode,
Touch'd by the best of Kings,
That sang the holy Ode.

Orpheus the Thracian Poet. Caput Hebre lyramque Exip. &c. Ovid. lib. 11. Metam.

So his, which Women slue,
And it int' Hebrus threw,
Such sounds yet forth it sent,
The Bankes to weepe that drue,
As downe the Streame it went.

Mercury inventor of the Harpe, as Horace Ode 10. lib. 7. curvæque lyræ parentem.

That by the Tortoyse shell,
To Mayas Sonne it fell,
The most thereof not doubt
But sure some Power did dwell,
In Him who found it out.

The Wildest of the field,
And Ayre, with Rivers t'yeeld,

Thebes fayned to have beene raysed by Musicke.

Which mov'd; that sturdy Glebes,
And massie Oakes could weeld,
To rayse the pyles of Thebes.

And diversly though Strung,
So anciently We sung
To it, that Now scarce knowne,
If first it did belong
To Greece, or if our Owne.

The Druydes imbrew'd,

The ancient British Priests, so called of their abode in woods. Pindar Prince of the Greeke lyricks, of whom Horace: Pindarum quisquis studet, &c. Ode 2. lib. 4.

With Gore, on Altars rude
With Sacrifices crown'd,
In hollow Woods bedew'd,
Ador'd the Trembling sound.

Though wee be All to seeke,
Of Pindar that Great Greeke,
To Finger it aright,
The Soule with power to strike,
His hand retayn'd such Might.

349

Or him that Rome did grace,

Horace first of the Romans in that kind.

Whose Ayres we all imbrace,
That scarcely found his Peere,
Nor giveth Phœbus place,
For Strokes divinely cleere.

The Irish I admire,
And still cleave to that Lyre,

The Irish Harpe.

As our Musike's Mother,
And thinke, till I expire,
Apollo's such another.

As Britons, that so long
Have held this Antike Song,
And let all our Carpers
Forbeare their fame to wrong,
Th'are right skilfull Harpers.

Southerne, I long thee spare,

Southerne, an English Lyrick.

Yet wish thee well to fare,
Who me pleased'st greatly,
As first, therefore more rare,
Handling thy Harpe neatly.

To those that with despight
Shall terme these Numbers slight,
Tell them their Judgement's blind,
Much erring from the right,
It is a Noble kind.

Nor is't the Verse doth make,
That giveth, or doth take,
'Tis possible to clyme,
To kindle, or to slake,
Although in Skelton's Ryme.

An old English Rymer.

350

TO THE NEW YEERE.

Rich Statue, double-faced,
With Marble Temples graced,
To rayse thy God-head hyer,
In flames where Altars shining,
Before thy Priests divining,
Doe od'rous Fumes expire.

Great Janus, I thy pleasure,
With all the Thespian Treasure,
Doe seriously pursue;
To th'passed yeere returning,
As though the old adjourning,
Yet bringing in the new.

Thy ancient Vigils yeerely,
I have observed cleerely,
Thy Feasts yet smoaking bee;
Since all thy store abroad is,
Give something to my Goddesse,
As hath been us'd by thee.

Give her th'Eoan brightnesse,
Wing'd with that subtill lightnesse,
That doth trans-pierce the Ayre;
The Roses of the Morning
The rising Heav'n adorning,
To mesh with flames of Hayre.

Those ceaselesse Sounds, above all,
Made by those Orbes that move all,
And ever swelling there,
Wrap'd up in Numbers flowing,
Them actually bestowing,
For Jewels at her Eare.

351

O Rapture great and holy,
Doe thou transport me wholly,
So well her forme to vary,
That I aloft may beare her,
Whereas I will insphere her
In Regions high and starry.

And in my choise Composures,
The soft and easie Closures,
So amorously shall meet;
That ev'ry lively Ceasure
Shall tread a perfect Measure,
Set on so equall feet.

That Spray to fame so fertle,
The Lover-crowning Mirtle,
In Wreaths of mixed Bowes,
Within whose shades are dwelling
Those Beauties most excelling,
Inthron'd upon her Browes.

Those Paralels so even,
Drawne on the face of Heaven,
That curious Art supposes,
Direct those Gems, whose cleerenesse
Farre off amaze by neerenesse,
Each Globe such fire incloses.

Her Bosome full of Blisses,
By nature made for Kisses,
So pure and wond'rous cleere,
Whereas a thousand Graces
Behold their lovely Faces,
As they are bathing there.

O, thou selfe-little blindnesse,
The kindnesse of unkindnesse,
Yet one of those divine;
Thy Brands to me were lever,
Thy Fascia, and thy Quiver,
And thou this Quill of mine.

352

This Heart so freshly bleeding,
Upon it owne selfe feeding,
Whose wounds still dropping be;
O Love, thy selfe confounding,
Her coldnesse so abounding,
And yet such heat in me.

Yet if I be inspired,
Ile leave thee so admired,
To all that shall succeed,
That were they more then many,
'Mongst all, there is not any,
That Time so oft shall reed.

Nor Adamant ingraved,
That hath been choisely'st saved,
Idea's Name out-weares;
So large a Dower as this is,
The greatest often misses,
The Diadem that beares.

TO HIS VALENTINE.

Muse, bid the Morne awake,
Sad Winter now declines,
Each Bird doth chuse a Make,
This day's Saint Valentines;
For that good Bishops sake
Get up, and let us see,
What Beautie it shall bee,
That Fortune us assignes.

353

But lo, in happy How'r,
The place wherein she lyes,
In yonder climbing Tow'r,
Gilt by the glitt'ring Rise;
O Jove! that in a Show'r,
As once that Thund'rer did,
When he in drops lay hid,
That I could her surprize.

Her Canopie Ile draw,
With spangled Plumes bedight,
No Mortall ever saw
So ravishing a sight;
That it the Gods might awe,
And pow'rfully trans-pierce
The Globie Universe,
Out-shooting ev'ry Light.

My Lips Ile softly lay
Upon her heav'nly Cheeke,
Dy'd like the dawning Day,
As polish'd Ivorie sleeke:
And in her Eare Ile say;
O, thou bright Morning-Starre,
'Tis I that come so farre,
My Valentine to seeke.

Each little Bird, this Tyde,
Doth chuse her loved Pheere,
Which constantly abide
In Wedlock all the yeere,
As Nature is their Guide:
So may we two be true,
This yeere, nor change for new,
As Turtles coupled were.

354

The Sparrow, Swan, the Dove,
Though Venus Birds they be,
Yet are they not for Love
So absolute as we:
For Reason us doth move;
They but by billing woo:
Then try what we can doo,
To whom each sense is free.

Which we have more then they,
By livelyer Organs sway'd,
Our Appetite each way
More by our Sense obay'd:
Our Passions to display,
This Season us doth fit;
Then let us follow it,
As Nature us doth lead.

One Kisse in two let's breake,
Confounded with the touch,
But halfe words let us speake,
Our Lip's imploy'd so much;
Untill we both grow weake,
With sweetnesse of thy breath;
O smother me to death:
Long let our Joyes be such.

Let's laugh at them that chuse
Their Valentines by lot,
To weare their Names that use,
Whom idly they have got:
Such poore choise we refuse,
Saint Valentine befriend;
We thus this Morne may spend,
Else Muse, awake her not.

355

THE HEART.

If THUS we needs must goe,
What shall our one Heart doe,
This One made of our Two?

Madame, two Hearts we brake,
And from them both did take
The best, one Heart to make.

Halfe this is of your Heart,
Mine in the other part,
Joyn'd by our equall Art.

Were it cymented, or sowne,
By Shreds or Pieces knowne,
We each might find our owne.

But 'tis dissolv'd, and fix'd,
And with such cunning mix'd,
No diff'rence that betwixt.

But how shall we agree,
By whom it kept shall be,
Whether by you, or me?

It cannot two Brests fill,
One must be heartlesse still,
Untill the other will.

It came to me to day,
When I will'd it to say,
With whether it would stay?

It told me, In your Brest,
Where it might hope to rest:
For if it were my Ghest,

356

For certainety it knew,
That I would still anew
Be sending it to you.

Never, I thinke, had two
Such worke, so much to doo,
A Unitie to woo.

Yours was so cold and chaste,
Whilst mine with zeale did waste,
Like Fire with Water plac'd.

How did my Heart intreat,
How pant, how did it beat,
Till it could give yours heat!

Till to that temper brought,
Through our perfection wrought,
That blessing eythers Thought.

In such a Height it lyes,
From this base Worlds dull Eyes,
That Heaven it not envyes.

All that this Earth can show,
Our Heart shall not once know,
For it too vile and low.

357

THE SACRIFICE TO APOLLO.

Priests of Apollo, sacred be the Roome,
For this learn'd Meeting: Let no barbarous Groome,
How brave soe'r he bee,
Attempt to enter;
But of the Muses free,
None here may venter;
This for the Delphian Prophets is prepar'd:
The prophane Vulgar are from hence debar'd.

And since the Feast so happily begins,
Call up those faire Nine, with their Violins;
They are begot by Jove,
Then let us place them,
Where no Clowne in may shove,
That may disgrace them:
But let them neere to young Apollo sit;
So shall his Foot-pace over-flow with Wit.

Where be the Graces, where be those fayre Three?
In any hand They may not absent bee:
They to the Gods are deare,
And they can humbly
Teach us, our Selves to beare,
And doe things comely:
They, and the Muses, rise both from one Stem,
They grace the Muses, and the Muses them.

Bring forth your Flaggons (fill'd with sparkling Wine)
Whereon swolne Bacchus, crowned with a Vine,
Is graven; and fill out,
It well bestowing,
To ev'ry Man about,
In Goblets flowing:
Let not a Man drinke, but in Draughts profound;
To our God Phœbus let the Health goe Round.

358

Let your Jests flye at large; yet therewithall
See they be Salt, but yet not mix'd with Gall:
Not tending to disgrace,
But fayrely given,
Becomming well the place,
Modest, and even;
That they with tickling Pleasure may provoke
Laughter in him, on whom the Jest is broke.

Or if the deeds of Heroes ye rehearse,
Let them be sung in so well-ord'red Verse,
That each word have his weight,
Yet runne with pleasure;
Holding one stately height,
In so brave measure,
That they may make the stiffest Storme seeme weake,
And dampe Joves Thunder, when it lowd'st doth speake.

And if yee list to exercise your Vayne,
Or in the Sock, or in the Buskin'd Strayne,
Let Art and Nature goe
One with the other;
Yet so, that Art may show
Nature her Mother;
The thick-brayn'd Audience lively to awake,
Till with shrill Claps the Theater doe shake.

Sing Hymnes to Bacchus then, with hands uprear'd,
Offer to Jove, who most is to be fear'd:
From him the Muse we have,
From him proceedeth
More then we dare to crave;
'Tis he that feedeth
Them, whom the World would starve; then let the Lyre
Sound, whilst his Altars endlesse flames expire.

359

TO CUPID.

Maydens, why spare ye?
Or whether not dare ye
Correct the blind Shooter?
Because wanton Venus,
So oft that doth paine us,
Is her Sonnes Tutor.

Now in the Spring,
He proveth his Wing,
The Field is his Bower,
And as the small Bee,
About flyeth hee,
From Flower to Flower.

And wantonly roves,
Abroad in the Groves,
And in the Ayre hovers,
Which when it him deweth,
His Fethers he meweth,
In sighes of true Lovers.

And since doom'd by Fate,
(That well knew his Hate)
That Hee should be blinde;
For very despite,
Our Eyes be his White,
So wayward his kinde.

If his Shafts loosing,
(Ill his Marke choosing)
Or his Bow broken;
The Moane Venus maketh,
And care that she taketh,
Cannot be spoken.

360

To Vulcan commending
Her love, and straight sending
Her Doves and her Sparrowes,
With Kisses unto him,
And all but to woo him,
To make her Sonne Arrowes.

Telling what he hath done,
(Sayth she, Right mine owne Sonne)
In her Armes she him closes,
Sweetes on him fans,
Layd in Downe of her Swans,
His Sheets, Leaves of Roses.

And feeds him with Kisses;
Which oft when he misses,
He ever is froward:
The Mothers o'r-joying,
Makes by much coying
The Child so untoward.

Yet in a fine Net,
That a Spider set,
The Maydens had caught him;
Had she not been neere him,
And chanced to heare him,
More good they had taught him.

AN AMOURET ANACREONTICK.

Most good, most faire.
Or Thing as rare,
To call you's lost;
For all the cost
Words can bestow,
So poorely show
Upon your prayse,

361

That all the wayes
Sense hath, come short:
Whereby Report
Falls them under;
That when Wonder
More hath seyzed,
Yet not pleased,
That it in kinde
Nothing can finde,
You to expresse:
Neverthelesse,
As by Globes small,
This Mightie All
Is shew'd, though farre
From Life, each Starre
A World being:
So wee seeing
You, like as that,
Onely trust what
Art doth us teach;
And when I reach
At Morall Things,
And that my Strings
Gravely should strike,
Straight some mislike
Blotteth mine Ode.
As with the Loade,
The Steele we touch,
Forc'd ne'r so much,
Yet still removes
To that it loves,
Till there it stayes;
So to your prayse
I turne ever,
And though never
From you moving,
Happie so loving.

362

LOVES CONQUEST.

Wer't granted me to choose,
How I would end my dayes;
Since I this Life must loose,
It should be in Your praise;
For there is no Bayes
Can be set above you.

S'impossibly I love You
And for You sit so hie,
Whence none may remove You
In my cleere Poesie,
That I oft deny
You so ample Merit.

The freedome of my Spirit
Maintayning (still) my Cause,
Your Sex not to inherit,
Urging the Salique Lawes;
But your Vertue drawes
From Me every due.

Thus still You me pursue,
That no where I can dwell,
By Feare made just to You,
Who Naturally rebell,
Of You that excell
That should I still Endyte,

Yet will You want some Ryte.
That lost in Your high praise
I wander to and fro,
As seeing sundry Waies:
Yet which the right not know
To get out of this Maze.

363

TO THE VIRGINIAN VOYAGE.

You brave Heroique Minds,
Worthy your Countries Name,
That Honour still pursue,
Goe, and subdue,
Whilst loyt'ring Hinds
Lurke here at home, with shame.

Britans, you stay too long,
Quickly aboord bestow you,
And with a merry Gale
Swell your stretch'd Sayle,
With Vowes as strong,
As the Winds that blow you.

Your Course securely steere,
West and by South forth keepe,
Rocks, Lee-shores, nor Sholes,
When Eolus scowles,
You need not feare,
So absolute the Deepe.

And cheerefully at Sea,
Successe you still intice,
To get the Pearle and Gold,
And ours to hold,
Virginia,
Earth's onely Paradise.

Where Nature hath in store
Fowle, Venison, and Fish,
And the fruitfull'st Soyle,
Without your Toyle,
Three Harvests more,
All greater then your Wish.

And the ambitious Vine
Crownes with his purple Masse,
The Cedar reaching hie
To kisse the Sky,
The Cypresse, Pine
And use-full Sassafras.

364

To whose, the golden Age
Still Natures lawes doth give,
No other Cares that tend,
But Them to defend
From Winters age,
That long there doth not live.

When as the Lushious smell
Of that delicious Land,
Above the Seas that flowes,
The cleere Wind throwes,
Your Hearts to swell
Approching the deare Strand.

In kenning of the Shore
(Thanks to God first given,)
O you the happy'st men,
Be Frolike then,
Let Cannons roare,
Frighting the wide Heaven.

And in Regions farre
Such Heroes bring yee foorth,
As those from whom We came,
And plant Our name,
Under that Starre
Not knowne unto our North.

And as there Plenty growes
Of Lawrell every where,
Apollo's Sacred tree,
You it may see,
A Poets Browes
To crowne, that may sing there.

Thy Voyages attend,
Industrious Hackluit,
Whose Reading shall inflame
Men to seeke Fame,
And much commend
To after-Times thy Wit.

365

AN ODE WRITTEN IN THE PEAKE.

This while we are abroad,
Shall we not touch our Lyre?
Shall we not sing an Ode?
Shall that holy Fire,
In us that strongly glow'd,
In this cold Ayre expire?

Long since the Summer layd
Her lustie Brav'rie downe,
The Autumne halfe is way'd,
And Boreas 'gins to frowne,
Since now I did behold
Great Brutes first builded Towne.

Though in the utmost Peake,
A while we doe remaine,
Amongst the Mountaines bleake
Expos'd to Sleet and Raine,
No Sport our Houres shall breake,
To exercise our Vaine.

What though bright Phœbus Beames
Refresh the Southerne Ground,
And though the Princely Thames
With beautious Nymphs abound,
And by old Camber's Streames
Be many Wonders found;

Yet many Rivers cleare
Here glide in Silver Swathes,
And what of all most deare,
Buckston's delicious Bathes,
Strong Ale and Noble Cheare,
T'asswage breeme Winters scathes.

366

Those grim and horrid Caves,
Whose Lookes affright the day,
Wherein nice Nature saves,
What she would not bewray,
Our better leasure craves,
And doth invite our Lay.

In places farre or neere,
Or famous, or obscure,
Where wholesome is the Ayre,
Or where the most impure,
All times, and every-where,
The Muse is still in ure.

HIS DEFENCE AGAINST THE IDLE CRITICK.

The Ryme nor marres, nor makes,
Nor addeth it, nor takes,
From that which we propose;
Things imaginarie
Doe so strangely varie,
That quickly we them lose.

And what's quickly begot,
As soone againe is not,
This doe I truely know:
Yea, and what's borne with paine,
That Sense doth long'st retaine,
Gone with a greater Flow.

Yet this Critick so sterne,
But whom, none must discerne,
Nor perfectly have seeing,
Strangely layes about him,
As nothing without him
Were worthy of being.

367

That I my selfe betray
To that most publique way,
Where the Worlds old Bawd,
Custome, that doth humor,
And by idle rumor,
Her Dotages applaud.

That whilst she still prefers
Those that be wholly hers,
Madnesse and Ignorance,
I creepe behind the Time,
From spertling with their Crime,
And glad too with my Chance.

O wretched World the while,
When the evill most vile
Beareth the fayrest face,
And inconstant lightnesse,
With a scornefull slightnesse,
The best Things doth disgrace.

Whilst this strange knowing Beast,
Man, of himselfe the least,
His Envie declaring,
Makes Vertue to descend,
Her Title to defend,
Against him, much preparing.

Yet these me not delude,
Nor from my place extrude,
By their resolved Hate;
Their vilenesse that doe know,
Which to my selfe I show,
To keepe above my Fate.

368

TO HIS RIVALL.

Her lov'd I most,
By thee that's lost,
Though she were wonne with leasure;
She was my gaine,
But to my paine,
Thou spoyl'st me of my Treasure.

The Ship full fraught
With Gold, farre sought,
Though ne'r so wisely helmed,
May suffer wracke
In sayling backe,
By Tempest over-whelmed.

But shee, good Sir,
Did not preferre
You, for that I was ranging;
But for that shee
Found faith in mee,
And she lov'd to be changing.

Therefore boast not
Your happy Lot,
Be silent now you have her;
The time I knew
She slighted you,
When I was in her favour.

None stands so fast,
But may be cast
By Fortune, and disgraced:
Once did I weare
Her Garter there,
Where you her Glove have placed.

369

I had the Vow
That thou hast now,
And Glances to discover
Her Love to mee,
And she to thee
Reades but old Lessons over.

She hath no Smile
That can beguile,
But as my Thought I know it;
Yea, to a Hayre,
Both when and where,
And how she will bestow it.

What now is thine,
Was onely mine,
And first to me was given;
Thou laugh'st at mee,
I laugh at thee,
And thus we two are even.

But Ile not mourne,
But stay my Turne,
The Wind may come about, Sir,
And once againe
May bring me in,
And helpe to beare you out, Sir.

370

A SKELTONIAD.

The Muse should be sprightly,
Yet not handling lightly
Things grave; as much loath,
Things that be slight, to cloath
Curiously: To retayne
The Comelinesse in meane,
Is true Knowledge and Wit.
Nor me forc'd Rage doth fit,
That I thereto should lacke
Tabacco, or need Sacke,
Which to the colder Braine
Is the true Hyppocrene;
Nor did I ever care
For great Fooles, nor them spare.
Vertue, though neglected.
Is not so dejected,
As vilely to descend
To low Basenesse their end;
Neyther each ryming Slave
Deserves the Name to have
Of Poet: so the Rabble
Of Fooles, for the Table,
That have their Jests by Heart,
As an Actor his Part,
Might assume them Chayres
Amongst the Muses Heyres.
Parnassus is not clome
By every such Mome;
Up whose steepe side who swerves,
It behoves t'have strong Nerves:
My Resolution such,
How well, and not how much
To write, thus doe I fare,
Like some, few good that care
(The evill sort among)
How well to live, and not how long.

371

THE CRYER.

Good Folke, for Gold or Hyre,
But helpe me to a Cryer;
For my poore Heart is runne astray
After two Eyes, that pass'd this way.
O yes, O yes, O yes,
If there be any Man,
In Towne or Countrey, can
Bring me my Heart againe,
Ile please him for his paine;
And by these Marks I will you show,
That onely I this Heart doe owe.
It is a wounded Heart,
Wherein yet sticks the Dart,
Ev'ry piece sore hurt throughout it,
Faith, and Troth, writ round about it:
It was a tame Heart, and a deare,
And never us'd to roame;
But having got this Haunt, I feare
'Twill hardly stay at home.
For Gods sake, walking by the way,
If you my Heart doe see,
Either impound it for a Stray,
Or send it backe to me.

372

TO HIS COY LOVE,

A Canzonet.

I pray thee leave, love me no more,
Call home the Heart you gave me,
I but in vaine that Saint adore,
That can, but will not save me:
These poore halfe Kisses kill me quite;
Was ever Man thus served?
Amidst an Ocean of Delight,
For Pleasure to be sterved.

Shew me no more those Snowie Brests,
With Azure Riverets branched,
Where whilst mine Eye with Plentie feasts,
Yet is my Thirst not stanched.
O Tantalus, thy Paines ne'r tell,
By me thou art prevented;
'Tis nothing to be plagu'd in Hell,
But thus in Heaven tormented.

Clip me no more in those deare Armes,
Nor thy Life's Comfort call me;
O, these are but too pow'rfull Charmes,
And doe but more inthrall me.
But see how patient I am growne,
In all this coyle about thee;
Come nice Thing, let thy Heart alone,
I cannot live without thee.

373

A HYMNE TO HIS LADIES BIRTH-PLACE.

Coventry, that do'st adorne
The Countrey wherein I was borne,
Yet therein lyes not thy prayse,
Why I should crowne thy Tow'rs with Bayes:
'Tis not thy Wall, me to thee weds,

Coventry finely walled. The Shoulder-bone of a Bore of mighty bignesse.

Thy Ports, nor thy proud Pyrameds,
Nor thy Trophies of the Bore,
But that Shee which I adore,
Which scarce Goodnesse selfe can payre,
First their breathing blest thy Ayre;

Idea, in which Name I hide
Her, in my heart Deifi'd,
For what good, Man's mind can see,
Onely Her Ideas be;
She, in whom the Vertues came
In Womans shape, and tooke her Name,
She so farre past Imitation,
As but Nature our Creation
Could not alter, she had aymed,
More then Woman to have framed:
She, whose truely written Story,
To thy poore Name shall adde more glory,
Then if it should have beene thy Chance,
T'have bred our Kings that Conquer'd France.

Had She beene borne the former Age,
That house had beene a Pilgrimage,
And reputed more Divine,

Two famous Pilgrimages, the one in Norfolk, the other in Kent. Godiva, Duke Leofricks wife, who obtained the Freedome of the City, of her husband, by riding thorow it naked.

Then Walsingham or Beckets Shrine.

That Princesse, to whom thou do'st owe
Thy Freedome, whose Cleere blushing snow,
The envious Sunne saw, when as she
Naked rode to make Thee free,
Was but her Type, as to foretell,
Thou should'st bring forth one, should excell

374

Her Bounty, by whom thou should'st have
More Honour, then she Freedome gave;

Queene Elizabeth.

And that great Queene, which but of late
Ru'ld this Land in Peace and State,
Had not beene, but Heaven had sworne,
A Maide should raigne, when she was borne.

Of thy Streets, which thou hold'st best,

A noted Streete in Coventry. His Mistresse birth-day.

And most frequent of the rest,
Happy Mich-Parke ev'ry yeere,
On the fourth of August there,
Let thy Maides from Flora's bowers,
With their Choyce and daintiest flowers
Decke Thee up, and from their store,
With brave Garlands crowne that dore.

The old Man passing by that way,
To his Sonne in Time shall say,
There was that Lady borne, which long
To after-Ages shall be sung;
Who unawares being passed by,
Back to that House shall cast his Eye,
Speaking my Verses as he goes,
And with a Sigh shut ev'ry Close.

Deare Citie, travelling by thee,
When thy rising Spyres I see,
Destined her place of Birth;
Yet me thinkes the very Earth
Hallowed is, so farre as I
Can thee possibly descry:
Then thou dwelling in this place,
Hearing some rude Hinde disgrace
Thy Citie with some scurvy thing,
Which some Jester forth did bring,
Speake these Lines where thou do'st come,
And strike the Slave for ever dumbe.

375

TO THE CAMBRO-BRITANS, and their Harpe, his Ballad of AGINCOURT.

Faire stood the Wind for France,
When we our Sayles advance,
Nor now to prove our chance,
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the Mayne,
At Kaux, the Mouth of Sene,
With all his Martiall Trayne,
Landed King Harry.

And taking many a Fort,
Furnish'd in Warlike sort,
Marcheth tow'rds Agincourt,
In happy howre;
Skirmishing day by day,
With those that stop'd his way,
Where the French Gen'rall lay,
With all his Power.

Which in his Hight of Pride,
King Henry to deride,
His Ransome to provide
To the King sending.
Which he neglects the while,
As from a Nation vile,
Yet with an angry smile,
Their fall portending.

376

And turning to his Men,
Quoth our brave Henry then,
Though they to one be ten,
Be not amazed.
Yet have we well begunne,
Battels so bravely wonne,
Have ever to the Sonne,
By Fame beene raysed.

And for my Selfe (quoth he,
This my full rest shall be,
England ne'r mourne for Me,
Nor more esteeme me.
Victor I will remaine,
Or on this Earth lie slaine,
Never shall Shee sustaine,
Losse to redeeme me.

Poiters and Cressy tell,
When most their Pride did swell,
Under our Swords they fell,
No lesse our skill is,
Then when our Grandsire Great,
Clayming the Regall Seate,
By many a Warlike feate,
Lop'd the French Lillies.

The Duke of Yorke so dread,
The eager Vaward led;
With the maine, Henry sped,
Among'st his Hench-men.
Excester had the Rere,
A Braver man not there,
O Lord, how hot they were,
On the false French-men!

377

They now to fight are gone,
Armour on Armour shone,
Drumme now to Drumme did grone,
To heare, was wonder;
That with Cryes they make,
The very Earth did shake,
Trumpet to Trumpet spake,
Thunder to Thunder.

Well it thine Age became,
O Noble Erpingham,
Which didst the Signall ayme,
To our hid Forces;
When from a Medow by,
Like a Storme suddenly,
The English Archery
Stuck the French Horses,

With Spanish Ewgh so strong,
Arrowes a Cloth-yard long,
That like to Serpents stung,
Piercing the Weather;
None from his fellow starts,
But playing Manly parts,
And like true English hearts,
Stuck close together.

When downe their Bowes they threw,
And forth their Bilbowes drew,
And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardie;
Armes were from shoulders sent,
Scalpes to the Teeth were rent,
Downe the French Pesants went,
Our Men were hardie.

378

This while our Noble King,
His broad Sword brandishing,
Downe the French Hoast did ding,
As to o'r-whelme it;
And many a deepe Wound lent,
His Armes with Bloud besprent,
And many a cruell Dent
Bruised his Helmet.

Gloster, that Duke so good,
Next of the Royall Blood,
For famous England stood,
With his brave Brother;
Clarence, in Steele so bright,
Though but a Maiden Knight,
Yet in that furious Fight,
Scarce such another.

Warwick in Bloud did wade,
Oxford the Foe invade,
And cruell slaughter made,
Still as they ran up;
Suffolke his Axe did ply,
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,
Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon Saint Crispin's day
Fought was this Noble Fray,
Which Fame did not delay,
To England to carry;
O, when shall English Men
With such Acts fill a Pen,
Or England breed againe,
Such a King Harry?

FINIS.