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The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields :
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,-
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,-
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed ;
Had joys no date, nor age no need ;
Then those delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.

LINES SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN THE NIGHT

BEFORE HIS EXECUTION.

L’EN such is time ; which takes on trust

- Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us back with earth and dust;

Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days :
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust.

SIR EDWARD DYER.

Born 1550. Died 1607.

MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS.
M Y mind to me a kingdom is,

I Such present joys therein I find,
That it excels all other bliss
That earth affords, or grows by kind :
Though much I want which most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

No princely pomp, no wealthy store,
No force to win the victory,
No wily wit to salve a sore,
No shape to feed a loving eye;
To none of these I yield as thrall :
For why? My mind doth serve for all.

I see how plenty surfeits oft,
And hasty climbers soon do fall;
I see that those which are aloft
Mishap doth threaten most of all ;

They get with toil, they keep with fear;
Such cares my mind could never bear.

Content to live, this is my stay ;
I seek no more than may suffice;
I press to bear no haughty sway;
Look, what I lack my mind supplies :
Lo, thus I triumph like a king,
Content with that my mind doth bring.

Some have too much, yet still do crave;
I little have, and seek no more.
They are but poor, though much they have,
And I am rich with little store ;
They poor, I rich; they beg, I give ;
They lack, I leave ; they pine, I live.

I laugh not at another's loss ;
I grudge not at another's pain ;
No worldly waves my mind can toss ;
My state at one doth still remain :
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 T 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 amazed.
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!

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