Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight
Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade;

Oxford the foe invade,

And cruel slaughter made,

Still as they ran up.

Suffolk his axe did ply,
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,
Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon St. Crispin's day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay
To England to carry;

Oh, when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,

Or England breed again

Such a King Harry ?

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

Take thy Old Cloake about thee.

THIS winter weather, it waxeth cold,
And frost doth freese on every hill;

And Boreas blows his blastes so cold
That all our cattell are like to spill.
Bell, my wife, who loves no strife,
Shee sayd unto me quietlye,

"Rise up, and save cowe Crumbocke's life—
Man, put thy old cloake about thee."

"O Bell, why dost thou flyte and scorne? Thou kenst my cloake is very thin

It is so bare and overworne

A cricke he thereon can not renn.
Then Ile no longer borrowe or lend—
For once Ile new apparelled be;
To-morrow Ile to town, and spend,

For Ile have a new cloake about me."

"Cow Crumbocke is a very good cow

She has been alwayes true to the payle; She has helped us to butter and cheese, I trow, And other things she will not fayle;

I wold be loth to see her pine;

Good husbande, counsel take of meIt is not for us to go so fine;

Man, take thy old cloake about thee."

"My cloake, it was a very good cloake-
It hath been alwayes true to the weare;
But now it is not worth a groat,

I have had it four-and-forty year.
Sometime it was of cloth in graine;

"T is now but a sigh clout as you may see; It will neither hold nor winde nor raineAnd Ile have a new cloake about me.'

"It is four-and-forty yeares ago

Since the one of us the other did ken; And we have had betwixt us towe

Of children either nine or ten.

We have brought them up to women and men—
In the fere of God I trowe they be;
And why wilt thou thyself misken—
Man, take thy old cloake about thee."

"O Bell, my wife, why dost thou floute? Now is now, and then was then;

แ

Seeke now all the world throughout,

Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen; They are clad in blacke, greene, yellowe, or gray, So far above their own degree

Once in my life Ile do as they,

For Ile have a new cloake about me."

'King Stephen was a worthy peere

His breeches cost him but a crowne;
He held them sixpence all too deere,
Therefore he called the tailor lowne.
He was a wight of high renowne,

And thou'se but of a low degree-
It 's pride that puts this countrye downe;
Man, take thy old cloake about thee."

Bell, my wife, she loves not strife,
Yet she will lead me if she can;

And oft to live a quiet life

I'm forced to yield though I be good-man. It's not for a man with a woman to threepe, Unless he first give o'er the plea;

As we began sae will we leave,

And Ile take my old cloake about me.

ANONYMOUS

A Contented Mind.

I WEIGH not fortune's frown or smile;
I joy not much in earthly joys;
I seek not state, I seek not style;
I am not fond of fancy's toys.
I rest so pleased with what I have,
I wish no more, no more I crave.

I quake not at the thunder's crack;
I tremble not at noise of war;

I swound not at the news of wrack,
I shrink not at a blazing star;
I fear not loss, I hope not gain;
I envy none, I none disdain.

I see ambition never pleased;

I see some Tantals starved in store;
I see gold's dropsy seldom eased;

I see even Midas gape for more;
I neither want, nor yet abound—
Enough's a feast, content is crowned.

I feign not friendship where I hate;
I fawn not on the great (in show);
I prize, I praise a mean estate,
Neither too lofty nor too low:
This, this is all my choice, my cheer-

A mind content, a conscience clear.

JOSHUA SYLVESTER.

Lobe me Little, Love me Long.

LOVE me little, love me long!

Is the burden of my song:
Love that is too hot and strong

Burneth soon to waste.

Still I would not have thee cold-
Not too backward, nor too bold;

Love that lasteth till 't is old

Fadeth not in haste.

Love me little, love me long!
Is the burden of my song.

If thou lovest me too much,
'T will not prove as true a touch;
Love me little more than such,—

For I fear the end.

I'm with little well content,

And a little from thee sent

Is enough, with true intent
To be steadfast, friend.

Say thou lovest me, while thou live
I to thee my love will give,
Never dreaming to deceive
While that life endures;
Nay, and after death, in sooth,
I to thee will keep my truth,

As now when in my May of youth:
This my love assures.

Constant love is moderate ever,
And it will through life persever;

Give me that with true endeavor,—
I will it restore.

A suit of durance let it be,

For all weathers,—that for me,—
For the land or for the sea:
Lasting evermore.

Winter's cold or summer's heat,
Autumn's tempests on it beat;
It can never know defeat,
Never can rebel;

Such the love that I would gain,
Such the love, I tell thee plain,
Thou must give, or woo in vain:
So to thee-farewell!

ANONYMOUS.