[from the Edition of 1619]
To Himselfe and The Harpe
And why not I, as hee
That's greatest, if as free,
(In sundry strains that striue,
Since there so many be)
Th' old Lyrick kind reuiue?
I will, yea, and I may;
Who shall oppose my way?
For what is he alone,
That of himselfe can say,
10Hee's Heire of Helicon?
Apollo, and the Nine,
Forbid no Man their Shrine,
That commeth with hands pure;
Else be they so diuine,
They will not him 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,
20That is not borne a Poet.
Pyreneus, King of Phocis, attempting to rauish the Muses.
That instrument ne'r heard,
Strooke by the skilfull Bard,
It strongly to awake;
But it th' infernalls skard,
30And made Olympus quake.
Sam. lib. 1. cap. 16.
Orpheus the Thracian Poet. Caput, Hebre, lyramque Excipis. &c. Ouid. lib. 11. Metam.
Mercury inuentor of the Harpe, as Horace Ode 10. lib. 1. curuaq; lyra parentẽ.
Thebes fayned to haue beene raysed by Musicke.
And diuersly though Strung,
So anciently We sung,
To it, that Now scarce knowne,
If first it did belong
To Greece, or if our Owne.
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.
Horace first of the Romans in that kind.
The Irish Harpe.
As Britons, that so long
Haue held this Antike Song,
And let all our Carpers
Forbeare their fame to wrong,
80Th' are right skilfull Harpers.
Southerne, an English Lyrick.
To those that with despight
Shall terme these Numbers slight,
Tell them their Iudgement's blind,
Much erring from the right,
90It is a Noble kind.
An old English Rymer.
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 diuining,
Doe od'rous Fumes expire.
Great Ianvs, I thy pleasure,
With all the Thespian treasure,
Doe seriously pursue;
10To th' passed yeere returning,
As though the old adiourning,
Yet bringing in the new.
Thy ancient Vigils yeerely,
I haue obserued cleerely,
Thy Feasts yet smoaking bee;
Since all thy store abroad is,
Giue something to my Goddesse,
As hath been vs'd by thee.
Giue her th' Eoan brightnesse,
20Wing'd with that subtill lightnesse,
That doth trans-pierce the Ayre;
The Roses of the Morning
The rising Heau'n adorning,
To mesh with flames of Hayre.
Those ceaselesse Sounds, aboue all,
Made by those Orbes that moue all,
And euer swelling there,
Wrap'd vp in Numbers flowing,
Them actually bestowing,
30For Iewels at her Eare.
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;
40That euery liuely Ceasure
Shall tread a perfect Measure
Set on so equall feet.
That Spray to fame so fertle,
The Louer-crowning Mirtle,
In Wreaths of mixed Bowes,
Within whose shades are dwelling
Those Beauties most excelling,
Inthron'd vpon her Browes.
Those Paralels so euen,
50Drawne on the face of Heauen,
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 louely Faces,
60As they are bathing there.
O, thou selfe-little blindnesse,
The kindnesse of vnkindnesse,
Yet one of those diuine;
Thy Brands to me were leuer,
Thy Fascia, and thy Quiuer,
And thou this Quill of mine.
This Heart so freshly bleeding,
Vpon it owne selfe feeding,
Whose woundes still dropping be;
70O Loue, thy selfe confounding,
Her coldnesse so abounding,
And yet such heat in me.
Yet if I be inspired,
Ile leaue 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 read.
Nor Adamant ingraued,
80That hath been choisely 'st saued,
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 Valentine's;
For that good Bishop's sake
Get vp, and let vs see,
What Beautie it shall bee,
That Fortune vs assignes.
But lo, in happy How'r,
10The place wherein she lyes,
In yonder climbing Tow'r,
Gilt by the glitt'ring Rise;
O Iove! 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 euer saw
20So rauishing a sight;
That it the Gods might awe,
And pow'rfully trans-pierce
The Globie Vniuerse,
Out-shooting eu'ry Light.
My Lips Ile softly lay
Vpon her heau'nly Cheeke,
Dy'd like the dawning Day,
As polish'd Iuorie sleeke:
And in her Eare Ile say;
30O, thou bright Morning-Starre,
'Tis I that come so farre,
My Valentine to seeke.
Each little Bird, this Tyde,
Doth chuse her loued 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,
40As Turtles coupled were.
The Sparrow, Swan, the Doue,
Though Venvs Birds they be,
Yet are they not for Loue
So absolute as we:
For Reason vs doth moue;
They but by billing woo:
Then try what we can doo,
To whom each sense is free.
Which we haue more then they,
50By liuelyer Organs sway'd,
Our Appetite each way
More by our Sense obay'd:
Our Passions to display,
This Season vs doth fit;
Then let vs follow it,
As Nature vs doth lead.
One Kisse in two let's breake,
Confounded with the touch,
But halfe words let vs speake,
60Our Lip's imploy'd so much,
Vntill we both grow weake,
With sweetnesse of thy breath;
O smother me to death:
Long let our Ioyes be such.
Let's laugh at them that chuse
Their Valentines by lot,
To weare their Names that vse,
Whom idly they haue got:
Such poore choise we refuse,
70Saint Valentine befriend;
We thus this Morne may spend,
Else Muse, awake her not.
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,
Ioyn'd by our equall Art.
10Were it cymented, or sowne,
By Shreds or Pieces knowne,
We each might find our owne.
But 'tis dissolu'd, and fix'd,
And with such cunning mix'd,
No diffrence that betwixt.
But how shall we agree,
By whom it kept shall be,
Whether by you, or me?
It cannot two Brests fill,
20One must be heartlesse still,
Vntill the other will.
It came to me one 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,
For certainety it knew,
That I would still anew
30Be sending it to you.
Neuer, I thinke, had two
Such worke, so much to doo,
A Vnitie 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 giue yours heat!
40Till 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 Heauen it not enuyes.
All that this Earth can show,
Our Heart shall not once know,
For it too vile and low.
The Sacrifice To Apollo
Priests of Apollo, sacred be the Roome,
For this learn'd Meeting: Let no barbarous Groome,
How braue 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,
10Call vp those faire Nine, with their Violins;
They are begot by Iove,
Then let vs place them,
Where no Clowne in may shoue,
That may disgrace them:
But let them neere to young Apollo sit;
So shall his Foot-pace ouer-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,
20And they can humbly
Teach vs, our Selues 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 Bacchvs, crowned with a Vine,
Is grauen, and fill out,
It well bestowing,
To eu'ry Man about,
30In Goblets flowing:
Let not a Man drinke, but in Draughts profound;
To our God Phœbvs let the Health goe Round.
Let your Iests flye at large; yet therewithall
See they be Salt, but yet not mix'd with Gall:
Not tending to disgrace,
But fayrely giuen,
Becomming well the place,
Modest, and euen;
That they with tickling Pleasure may prouoke
40Laughter in him, on whom the Iest is broke.
Or if the deeds of Heroes ye rehearse,
Let them be sung in so well-ord'red Verse,
That each word haue his weight,
Yet runne with pleasure;
Holding one stately height,
In so braue measure,
That they may make the stiffest Storme seeme weake,
And dampe Ioves Thunder, when it lowd'st doth speake.
And if yee list to exercise your Vayne,
50Or 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 liuely to awake,
Till with shrill Claps the Theater doe shake.
Sing Hymnes to Bacchvs then, with hands vprear'd,
Offer to Iove, who most is to be fear'd;
From him the Muse we haue,
60From him proceedeth
More then we dare to craue;
'Tis he that feedeth
Them, whom the World would starue; then let the Lyre
Sound, whilst his Altars endlesse flames expire.
To Cvpid
Maydens, why spare ye?
Or whether not dare ye
Correct the blind Shooter?
Because wanton Venvs,
So oft that doth paine vs,
Is her Sonnes Tutor.
Now in the Spring,
He proueth his Wing,
The Field is his Bower,
10And as the small Bee,
About flyeth hee,
From Flower to Flower.
And wantonly roues,
Abroad in the Groues,
And in the Ayre houers,
Which when it him deweth,
His Fethers he meweth,
In sighes of true Louers.
And since doom'd by Fate,
20(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 Mark choosing)
Or his Bow broken;
The Moane Venvs maketh,
And care that she taketh,
30Cannot be spoken.
To Vulcan commending
Her loue, and straight sending
Her Doues and her Sparrowes,
With Kisses vnto 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,
40Sweetes on him fans,
Layd in Downe of her Swans,
His Sheets, Leaues of Roses.
And feeds him with Kisses;
Which oft when he misses,
He euer is froward:
The Mothers o'r-ioying,
Makes by much coying,
The Child so vntoward.
Yet in a fine Net,
50That a Spider set,
The Maydens had caught him;
Had she not beene neere him,
And chanced to heare him,
More good they had taught him.
An Amovret Anacreontick
Most good, most faire,
Or Thing as rare,
To call you's lost;
For all the cost
Words can bestow,
So poorely show
Vpon your prayse,
That all the wayes
Sense hath, come short:
10Whereby Report
Falls them vnder;
That when Wonder
More hath seyzed,
Yet not pleased,
That it in kinde
Nothing can finde,
You to expresse:
Neuerthelesse,
As by Globes small,
20This 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 vs teach;
And when I reach
At Morall Things,
30And that my Strings
Grauely should strike,
Straight some mislike
Blotteth mine Ode.
As with the Loade,
The Steele we touch,
Forced ne'r so much,
Yet still remoues
To that it loues,
Till there it stayes;
40So to your prayse
I turne euer,
And though neuer
From you mouing,
Happie so louing.
Loves Conqvest
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 aboue you.
S' impossibly I loue You,
And for you sit so hie,
Whence none may remoue You
10In 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,
Vrging the Salique Lawes;
But your Vertue drawes
From me euery due.
Thus still You me pursue,
20That no where I can dwell,
By Feare made iust 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
30To get out of this Maze.
To The Viriginian Voyage
You braue 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 aboard bestow you,
And with a merry Gale
10Swell 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 Eolvs scowles,
You need not feare,
So absolute the Deepe.
And cheerefully at Sea,
20Successe 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 Haruests more,
30All 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 vse-full Sassafras.
To whome, the golden Age
Still Natures lawes doth giue,
No other Cares that tend,
40But Them to defend
From Winters rage,
That long there doth not liue.
When as the Lushious smell
Of that delicious Land,
Aboue the Seas that flowes,
The cleere Wind throwes,
Your Hearts to swell
Approaching the deare Strande.
In kenning of the Shore
50(Thanks to God first giuen,)
O you the happy'st men,
Be Frolike then,
Let Cannons roare,
Frighting the wide Heauen.
And in Regions farre
Such Heroes bring yee foorth,
As those from whom We came,
And plant Our name,
Vnder that Starre
60Not knowne vnto our North.
And as there Plenty growes
Of Lawrell euery where,
Apollo's Sacred tree,
You may it see,
A Poets Browes
To crowne, that may sing there.
Thy Voyages attend,
Industrious Hacklvit,
Whose Reading shall inflame
70Men to seeke Fame,
And much commend
To after-Times thy Wit.
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 vs that strongly glow'd,
In this cold Ayre expire?
Long since the Summer layd
Her lustie Brau'rie downe,
The Autumne halfe is way'd,
10And Boreas 'gins to frowne,
Since now I did behold
Great Brvtes first builded Towne.
Though in the vtmost 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 Phœbvs Beames
20Refresh the Southerne Ground,
And though the Princely Thames
With beautious Nymphs abound,
And by old Camber's Streames
Be many Wonders found;
Yet many Riuers cleare
Here glide in Siluer Swathes,
And what of all most deare,
Buckston's delicious Bathes,
Strong Ale and Noble Cheare,
30T' asswage breeme Winters scathes.
Those grim and horrid Caues,
Whose Lookes affright the day,
Wherein nice Nature saues,
What she would not bewray,
Our better leasure craues,
And doth inuite our Lay.
In places farre or neere,
Or famous, or obscure,
Where wholesome is the Ayre,
40Or where the most impure,
All times, and euery-where,
The Muse is still in vre.
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:
10Yea, 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 haue seeing,
Strangely layes about him,
As nothing without him
Were worthy of being.
That I my selfe betray
20To that most publique way,
Where the Worlds old Bawd,
Custome, that doth humor,
And by idle rumor,
Her Dotages applaud.
That whilst he still prefers
Those that be wholly hers,
Madnesse and Ignorance,
I creepe behind the Time,
From spertling with their Crime,
30And glad too with my Chance.
O wretched World the while,
When the euill 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 Enuie declaring,
40Makes Vertue to descend,
Her title to defend,
Against him, much preparing.
Yet these me not delude,
Nor from my place extrude,
By their resolued Hate;
Their vilenesse that doe know;
Which to my selfe I show,
To keepe aboue my Fate.
To His Rivall
Her lou'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,
10May suffer wracke
In sayling backe,
By Tempest ouer-whelmed.
But shee, good Sir,
Did not preferre
You, for that I was ranging;
But for that shee
Found faith in mee,
And she lou'd to be changing.
Therefore boast not
20Your happy Lot,
Be silent now you haue her;
The time I knew
She slighted you,
When I was in her fauour.
None stands so fast,
But may be cast
By Fortune, and disgraced:
Once did I weare
Her Garter there,
30Where you her Gloue haue placed.
I had the Vow
That thou hast now,
And Glances to discouer
Her Loue to mee,
And she to thee
Reades but old Lessons ouer.
She hath no Smile
That can beguile,
But as my Thought I know it;
40Yea, 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 giuen;
Thou laugh'st at mee,
I laugh at thee,
And thus we two are euen.
But Ile not mourne,
50But stay my Turne,
The Wind may come about, Sir,
And once againe
May bring me in,
And help to beare you out, Sir.
A Skeltoniad
The Muse should be sprightly,
Yet not handling lightly
Things graue; as much loath,
Things that be slight, to cloath
Curiously: To retayne
The Comelinesse in meane,
Is true Knowledge and Wit.
Not me forc'd Rage doth fit,
That I thereto should lacke
10Tabacco, or need Sacke,
Which to the colder Braine
Is the true Hyppocrene;
Nor did I euer care
For great Fooles, nor them spare.
Vertue, though neglected,
Is not so deiected,
As vilely to descend
To low Basenesse their end;
Neyther each ryming Slaue
20Deserues the Name to haue
Of Poet: so the Rabble
Of Fooles, for the Table,
That haue their Iests by Heart,
As an Actor his Part,
Might assume them Chayres
Amongst the Muses Heyres.
Parnassus is not clome
By euery such Mome;
Vp whose steep side who swerues,
30It behoues t' haue strong Nerues:
My Resolution such,
How well, and not how much
To write, thus doe I fare,
Like some few good that care
(The euill sort among)
How well to liue, and not how long.
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;
10And by these Marks I will you show,
That onely I this Heart doe owe.
It is a wounded Heart,
Wherein yet sticks the Dart,
Eu'ry piece sore hurt throughout it,
Faith, and Troth, writ round about it:
It was a tame Heart, and a deare,
And neuer vs'd to roame;
But hauing got this Haunt, I feare
'Twill hardly stay at home.
20For Gods sake, walking by the way,
If you my Heart doe see,
Either impound it for a Stray,
Or send it backe to me.
To His Coy Love
A Canzonet
I pray thee leaue, loue me no more,
Call home the Heart you gaue me,
I but in vaine that Saint adore,
That can, but will not saue me:
These poore halfe Kisses kill me quite;
Was euer man thus serued?
Amidst an Ocean of Delight,
For Pleasure to be sterued.
Shew me no more those Snowie Brests,
10With Azure Riuerets branched,
Where whilst mine Eye with Plentie feasts,
Yet is my Thirst not stanched.
O Tantalvs, thy Paines n'er tell,
By me thou art preuented;
'Tis nothing to be plagu'd in Hell,
But thus in Heauen tormented.
Clip me no more in those deare Armes,
Nor thy Life's Comfort call me;
O, these are but too pow'rfull Charmes,
20And doe but more inthrall me.
But see, how patient I am growne,
In all this coyle about thee;
Come nice thing, let my Heart alone,
I cannot liue without thee.
A Hymne To His Ladies Birth-Place
Couentry, 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:
Couentry finely walled.
The Shoulder-bone of a hare of mighty bignesse.
Two famous Pilgrimages, the one in Norfolk, the other in Kent.
Godiua, Duke Leofricks wife, who obtained the Freedome of the city, of her husband, by riding thorow it naked.
Queene Elizabeth.
A noted Streete in Couentry.
His Mistresse birth-day.
To The Cambro-Britans and their Harpe, his Ballad of Agincovrt
Faire stood the Wind for France,
When we our Sayles aduance,
Nor now to proue 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,
10Furnish'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 prouide
20To the King sending.
Which he neglects the while,
As from a Nation vile,
Yet with an angry smile,
Their fall portending.
And turning to his Men,
Quoth our braue Henry then,
Though they to one be ten,
Be not amazed.
Yet haue we well begunne,
30Battels so brauely wonne,
Haue euer 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,
Neuer shall Shee sustaine,
40Losse to redeeme me.
Poiters and Cressy tell,
When most their Pride did swell,
Vnder our Swords they fell,
No lesse our skill is,
Than when our Grandsire Great,
Clayming the Regall Seate,
By many a Warlike feate,
Lop'd the French Lillies.
The Duke of Yorke so dread,
50The eager Vaward led;
With the maine, Henry sped,
Among'st his Hench-men.
Excester had the Rere,
A Brauer man not there,
O Lord, how hot they were,
On the false French-men!
They now to fight are gone,
Armour on Armour shone,
Drumme now to Drumme did grone,
60To heare, was wonder;
That with the 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,
70Like 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,
80Stuck 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.
This while our Noble King,
90His 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,
100With his braue 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 inuade,
And cruell slaughter made,
Still as they ran vp;
Svffolke his Axe did ply,
110Beavmont and Willovghby
Bare them right doughtily,
Ferrers and Fanhope.
Vpon 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,
120Such a King Harry?
