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I fear no foe, I fawn no friend;
I loath not life, nor dread mine end.

Some weigh their pleasure by their lust,
Their wisdom by their rage of will;
Their treasure is their only trust ;
A cloaked craft their store of skill:
But all the treasure that I find
Is to maintain a quiet mind.

My wealth is health and perfect ease ;
My conscience clear my chief defence;
I neither seek by bribes to please,
Nor by deceit to breed offence :
Thus do I live; thus will I die;
Would all did so as well as I!

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

Born 1563. Died 1631.

THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT.

FAIR stood the wind for France

When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main,
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,
Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort,
Furnished in warlike sort,
Marched towards Agincourt
In happy hour;
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stopped his way,
Where the French general lay
With all his power.
Which in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide

To 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 brave Henry then,
"Though they to one be ten,
Be not amazèd.
Yet have we well begun,
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun

By fame been raised. "And for myself," quoth he, "This my full rest shall be ; England ne'er mourn for me,

Nor more esteem me.
Victor I will remain,
Or on this earth lie slain,
Never shall she sustain

Loss to redeem me.

"Poictiers and Cressy tell, When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell :

No less our skill is,
Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat
By many a warlike feat
Lopped the French lilies."

The Duke of York so dread
The eager vaward led,
With the main Henry sped,
Among 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

Struck 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,
And like true English hearts,
Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw, And forth their bilbows drew, And on the French they flew ;

Not one was tardy;

Arms were from shoulders sent;
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went,
Our men were hardy.

This while our noble king,
His broad sword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding,
As to o'erwhelm it;
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent

Bruised his helmet.

Gloucester, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood,

With his brave brother; 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
Bear 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.
Oh, when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry!

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

Beaumont born 1586; died 1616. Fletcher born 1579; died 1625.

A SAD SONG.

WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan,
Sorrow calls no time that's gone:

Violets plucked, the sweetest rain

Makes not fresh nor grow again;

Trim thy locks, look cheerfully;

Fate's hidden ends eyes cannot see ;
Joys as winged dreams fly fast,

Why should sadness longer last?

Grief is but a wound to woe;

Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no more.

Fletcher.

FROM AN HONEST MAN'S FORTUNE."

MAN is his own star, and the soul that can
Render an honest and a perfect man,
Commands all light, all influence, all fate;
Nothing to him falls early or too late;
Our acts our angels are, or good or ill,

Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.

Fletcher.

LINES ON THE TOMBS OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

MORTALITY, behold and fear!

What a change of flesh is here!

Think how many royal bones

Sleep within this heap of stones;

Here they lie had realms and lands,

Who now want strength to stir their hands;
Where from their pulpits sealed with dust

They preach "In greatness is no trust."

Here's an acre sown indeed

With the richest royall'st seed

That the earth did e'er suck in,

Since the first man died for sin;

Here the bones of birth have cried,

"Though gods they were, as men they died."

Here are sands, ignoble things,

Dropt from the ruined sides of kings:
Here's a world of pomp and state,

Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

Beaumont.

JOSHUA SYLVESTER.

Born 1563. Died 1610.

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 e'en 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,

56

Seventeenth Century.

JOHN MILTON.

Born 1608. Died 1674.

SOLILOQUY OF SATAN.

Is this the region, this the soil, the clime,

Said then the lost archangel, this the seat,

That we must change for heaven? this mournful gloom
For that celestial light? Be it so, since he,

Who now is Sovran, can dispose and bid

What shall be right; farthest from him is best,

Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme
Above his equals. Farewell, happy fields,
Where joy forever dwells! Hail horrors, hail
Infernal world! and thou profoundest hell,
Receive thy new possessor, one who brings
A mind not to be changed by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.
What matter where, if I be still the same,
And where I should be; all but less than he
Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at leas
We shall be free; the Almighty hath not built
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:
Here we may reign secure, and, in my choice,
To reign is worth ambition, though in hell,-
Better to reign in hell, than serve in heaven.
But wherefore let we then our faithful friends,
The associates and co-partners of our loss.
Lie thus astonished on the oblivious pool,
And call them not to share with us their part
In this unhappy mansion; or once more,

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