The flowers do fade, and wanton fields Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, All these in me no means can move But could youth last, and love still breed; LINES SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS EXECUTION. E '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, SIR EDWARD DYER. Born 1550. Died 1607. MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS. MY mind to me a kingdom is, 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 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, I see that those which are aloft Content to live, this is my stay; I press to bear no haughty sway; Content with that my mind doth bring. D Some have too much, yet still do crave; They are but poor, though much they have, They poor, I rich; they beg, I give; I laugh not at another's loss; Some weigh their pleasure by their lust, My wealth is health and perfect ease; 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, And taking many a fort, Skirmishing day by day With those that stopped his way, Which in his height of pride, King Henry to deride, His ransom to provide To the King sending; Which he neglects the while, Yet, with an angry smile, Their fall portending. And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Henry then, Yet have we well begun, Have ever to the sun By fame been raisèd. 'And for myself,' quoth he, 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 |