Thou Trivia, dost alone excell,
In heaven when thou dost please to dwell
Cald Cynthia, Proserpine in Hell:
But when thou theair art fyred
And takest thy bugle and thy bowe,
To chase on Earth the hart or doe,
Thee for Diana all men knowe,
Who art mongst us admired:
Pan and Pomona boath rejoyce,
So swaynes and nimphes with pipe and voyce.
Off all chast vestalls thou art queene
Which are, which heretofore have been;
The fawnes and satyres cladd in greene
On earth wayte to attend thee;
And when that thou on huntinge goest,
In which thou art delighted moest,
They off their active swiftnes boast,
For which we all comend thee.
Pan and Pomona boath rejoyce,
So swaynes and nimphes with pipe and voyce.
We come now to a chronicle play (leaves 97-118), Edmond Ironside: The English King. This piece had a second title—A trew Chronicle History called War hath made all friends. It must be confessed that this old play is a tedious business, sadly wanting in life and movement. The following extract will give a taste of the author's quality:—
Enter Canutus, Edricus with other Lords and souldiers.
Canutus. A plague upon you all for arrant cowards!
Looke how a dunghill cocke not rightly bred
Doth come into the pitt with greater grace,
Brislinge his feathers, settinge upp his plumes,
Clappinge his winges and crowinge lowder out
Then doth a cocke of game that meanes to fight;
Yett after, when he feeles the spurres to pricke,
Crakes like a Craven and bewrayes himself:
Even soe my bigbond Daines, adrest to fight
As though they meant to scale the Cope of heaven,
(And like the Giants graple with the gods)
At first encounter rush uppon theire foes
But straight retire: retire? nay, run awaye
As men distraught with lightninge from above
Or dastards feared with a sodaine fraye.
Edricus. Renowned Soveraigne, doe not fret your self.
Fortune in turninge will exalt your state
And change the Countenaunce of her cloudy browe,
Now you must hope for better still and better
And Edmond must expect still worse and worse,
A lowringe morning proves a fayer daye,
Fortunes ilfavord frowne shewes shee will smile
On you and frowne on Ironside.
Canutus. What telst thou mee of fortune and her frownes,
Of her sower visage and her rowling stone?
Thy tongue rowles headlong into flattery.
Now by theis heavens above our wretched heades
Ye are but cowards every one of you!
Edmond is blest: oh, had I but his men,
I would not doute to conquer all the world
In shorter time the [then] Alexander did.
But all my Daines are Braggadochios
And I accurst to bee the generall
Of such a stocke of fearefull runawaies.
South. Remember you have lost Ten Thousand men,
All English borne except a Thousand Daines.
Your pensive lookes will kill them that survive
If thus to Choller you give libertie.
Canutus. It weare no matter if they all weare slaine,
Then they should neaver runne awaye againe.
Uska. My noble lord, our Cuntrymen are safe:
In all their broyles English gainst English fight;
The Daines or none or very few are slaine.