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.

WE

A SAD SONG.

EEP 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 wingèd dreams fly fast,
Why should sadness longer last?
Grief is but a wound to woe;

Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe.

Fletcher.

FROM AN HONEST MAN'S FORTUNE.'

MAN

AN 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.

I

A CONTENTED MIND.

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.