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And many a deep wound lent; His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent
Bruised his helmet.
"Poitiers 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."
Amongst his henchmen:
On the false Frenchmen!
Gloucester, that duke so good,
With his brave brother. Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight
Scarce such another!
They now to fight are gone;
To hear, was wonder;
Thunder to thunder.
To our hid forces !
Stuck the French horses.
Piercing the weather.
Stuck close together.
Not one was tardy.
Our men were hardy.
As to o'erwhelm it.
From learned Florence (long time rich in fame),
When of thy health I did desire to know; And trick them up in knotted curls anew,
And in the autumn give a summer's hue.
Shall put fresh blood into thy withered veins, I do remember thou didst read that Ode,
And on thy red decayed, thy whiteness dead, Sent back whilst I in Thanet made abode;
Shall set a white more white, a red more red. Where as thou cam'st unto the word of love, When thy dim sight thy glass cannot descry, 131 Even in thine eyes I saw how passion
Thy crazed mirror cannot see thine eye, That snowy lawn which covered thy bed,
My verse to tell what eye, what mirror was, Me thought looked white, to see thy cheek so red, Glass to thine eye, an eye unto thy glass, Thy rosy cheek oft changing in my sight, 71 Where both thy mirror and thine eye shall see, Yet still was red, to see the lawn so white.
What once thou saw'st in that, that saw in thee; The little taper which should give thee light, And to them both shall tell the simple truth, Me thought waxed dim, to see thy eye so bright; What that in pureness was, what thou in youth. Thine eye again supplies the taper's turn,
If Florence once should lose her old renown, And with his beams doth make the taper burn. As famous Athens, now a fisher town,
140 The shrugging air about thy temple hurls,
My lines for thee a Florence shall erect, And wraps thy breath in little crowded curls, Which great Apollo ever shall protect; And as it doth ascend, it straight doth cease it, And with the numbers from my pen that falls, And as it sinks, it presently doth raise it. 80 Bring marble mines to re-erect those walls. Canst thou by sickness banish beauty so? Which if put from thee, knows not where to go
I find no cause, nor judge I reason why To make her shift, and for her succor seek
My country should give place to Lombardy. To every riveled face, each bankrupt cheek.
As goodly flowers on Thamisis do grow, If health preserved, thou beauty still dost cherish;
As beautify the banks of wanton Po;
230 If that neglected, beauty soon doth perish.
As many Nymphs as haunt rich Arnus' strand, Care draws on care, woe comforts woe again,
By silver Sabrine tripping hand in hand; Sorrow breeds sorrow, one grief brings forth twain.
Our shades as sweet, though not to us so dear, If live, or die, as thou dost, so do I;
Because the sun hath greater power here. If live, I live, and if thou die, I die;
90 This distant place but gives me greater woe; One heart, one love, one joy, one grief, one troth,
Far off, my sighs the farther have to go! One good, one ill, one life, one death to both.
Ah absence! why thus shouldst thou seem so long? If Howard's blood thou hold'st as but too vile
Or wherefore shouldst thou offer time such wrong, Or not esteemst of Norfolk's Princely style,
Summer so soon should steal on winter's cold
Love did us both with one self arrow strike; 241 Yet am I one of great Apollo's heirs,
Our wounds both one, our cure should be the like; The sacred Muses challenge me for theirs.
Except thou hast found out some means by art, By Princes my immortal lines are sung,
Some powerful medicine to withdraw the dart; My flowing verses graced with every tongue;
But mine is fixed, and absence, physic proved, The little children, when they learn to go,
It sticks too fast, it cannot be removed. By painful mothers guided to and fro,
Adieu, adieu, from Florence when I go, Are taught my sugar'd numbers to rehearse,
By my next letters Geraldine shall know; And have their sweet lips seasoned with my verse.
Which if good fortune shall my course direct, When heaven would strive to do the best it can,
From Venice by some messenger expect; 250 And put an angel's spirit into a man,
Till when, I leave thee to thy heart's desire. The utmost power in that great work doth spend, By him that lives thy virtues to admire. When to the world a poet it doth intend. That little difference 'twixt the Gods and us, By them confirmed, distinguished only thus;
THE COURT OF FAIRY
Mad Rabelais of Pantagruel,
With such poor trifles playing;
Her chariot ready straight is made Each thing therein is fitting laid, That she by nothing might be stayed,
For nought must her be letting; Four nimble gnats the horses were, Their harnesses of gossamer, Fly Cranion her charioteer
Upon the coach-box getting.
On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood,
The wheels composed of crickets' bones,
With thistle-down they shod it;
150 That Mab his Queen should have been there,
He would not have abode it.
i See also p. 131.
Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives. Many would praise the sweet smell as she past, When 'twas the odour which her breath forth
cast; And there, for honey, bees have sought in vain, And, beat from thence, have lighted there again. About her neck hung chains of pebble-stone, Which, lighten'd by her neck, like diamonds shone. She ware no gloves; for neither sun nor wind Would burn or parch her hands, but, to her mind, Or warm or cool them, for they took delight To play upon those hands, they were so white. Buskins of shells, all silver'd, usèd she,
31 And branch'd with blushing coral to the knee; Where sparrows perch'd of hollow pearl and gold, Such as the world would wonder to behold: Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills, Which as she went, would chirrup through the
bills. Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pin’d, And, looking in her face, was strooken blind. But this is true; so like was one the other, As he imagin’d Hero was his mother; And oftentimes into her bosom flew, About her naked neck his bare arms threw, And laid his childish head upon her breast, And, with still panting rock, there took his rest. So lovely-fair was Hero, Venus' nun, As Nature wept, thinking she was undone, Because she took more from her than she left, And of such wondrous beauty her bereft: Therefore, in sign her treasure suffer'd wrack, Since Hero's time hath half the world been black.
Amorous Leander, beautiful and young 51 (Whose tragedy divine Musæus sung), Dwelt at Abydos; since him dwelt there none For whom succeeding times make greater moan. His dangling tresses, that were never shorn, Had they been cut, and unto Colchos borne, Would have allur'd the venturous youth of Greece To hazard more than for the golden fleece. Fair Cynthia wished his arms might be her Sphere; Grief makes her pale, because she moves not there. His body was as straight as Circe's wand; 61 Jove might have sipt out nectar from his hand. Even as delicious meat is to the taste, So was his neck in touching, and surpast The white of Pelops' shoulder: I could tell ye, How smooth his breast was, and how white his
belly; And whose immortal fingers did imprint That heavenly path with many a curious dint That runs along his back; but my rude pen Can hardly blazon forth the loves of men, 70 Much less of powerful gods: Let it suffice That my slack Muse sings of Leander's eyes;
Those orient cheeks and lips, exceeding his
say, “Leander, thou art made for amorous play; Why art thou not in love, and loved of all ? Though thou be fair, yet be not thine own thrall."
The men of wealthy Sestos every year, 91 For his sake whom their goddess held so dear, Rose-cheek's Adonis, kept a solemn feast. Thither resorted many a wandering guest To meet their loves; such as had none at all Came lovers home from this great festival; For every street, like to a firmament, Glister'd with breathing stars, who, where they
And some, their violent passions to assuage,
She said, love should have no wrong.
- N. BRETON (15457-1626?)
And in the midst a silver altar stood:
It lies not in our power to love or hate, For will in us is over-rul'd by fate. When two are stript long ere the course begin, We wish that one should lose, the other win; 170 And one especially do we affect Of two gold ingots, like in each respect: The reason no man knows, let it suffice, What we behold is censur'd by our eyes. Where both deliberate, the love is slight: Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?