XXXIX

SONG.

Lay a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew ;
Maidens, willow branches bear;
Say, I died true.
My love was false, but I was firm

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From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth!

Beaumont and Fletcher.

XL

THE SHEPHERD'S PRAISE OF HIS SACRED DIANA.

Praised be Diana's fair and harmless light,

Praised be the dews, wherewith she moists the ground : Praised be her beams, the glory of the night,

Praised be her power, by which all powers abound. Praised be her nymphs, with whom she decks the woods,

Praised be her knights, in whom true honour lives : 6 Praised be that force by which she moves the floods,

Let that Diana shine which all these gives. In heaven Queen she is among the spheres,

She, mistress like, makes all things to be pure;
Eternity in her oft change she bears,

She beauty is, by her the fair endure.
Time wears her not, she doth his chariot guide,

Mortality below her orb is placed;
By her the virtue of the stars down slide,

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In her is Virtue's perfect image cast.
A knowledge pure it is her worth to know :
With Circe let them dwell that think not so.

Anon.

10 XLI

TRUE GROWTH.

It is not growing like a tree

In bulk, doth make men better be ;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere.
A lily of a day

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Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night;

It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.

Ben Jonson.

IO

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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

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With the main Henry sped,

Amongst 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

Stuck 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;