Ne doo I thinke that that same subtil gin, The which the Lemnian god framde craftilie,

Mars sleeping with his wife to compasse in,

That all the gods with common mockerie Might laugh at them, and scorne their shamefull sin,

Was like to this. This same he did applie
For to entrap the careles Clarion,
That rang'd each where without suspition.

Suspition of friend, nor feare of foe,
That hazarded his health, had he at all,
But walkt at will, and wandred too and
fro,

In the pride of his freedome principall:
Litle wist he his fatall future woe,
But was secure; the liker he to fall.
He likest is to fall into mischaunce,
That is regardles of his governaunce.

Yet still Aragnoll (so his foe was hight) Lay lurking covertly him to surprise, And all his gins, that him entangle might, Drest in good order as he could devise. At length the foolish flie, without foresight,

As he that did all daunger quite despise, Toward those parts came flying careleslie, Where hidden was his hatefull enemie.

Ne stirreth limbe, till, seeing readie tide, He rusheth forth, and snatcheth quite away

One of the litle yonglings unawares: So to his worke Aragnoll him prepares.

Who now shall give unto my heavie eyes A well of teares, that all may overflow? Or where shall I finde lamentable cryes, And mournfull tunes enough my griefe to show?

Helpe, O thou Tragick Muse, me to devise Notes sad enough, t' expresse this bitter throw:

For loe! the drerie stownd is now arrived,
That of all happines hath us deprived.

The luckles Clarion, whether cruell Fate
Or wicked Fortune faultles him misled,
Or some ungracious blast out of the gate
Of Aeoles raine perforce him drove on hed,
Was (O sad hap and howre unfortunate!)
With violent swift flight forth caried
Into the cursed cobweb, which his foe
Had framed for his finall overthroe.

There the fond flie, entangled, strugled long,

Himselfe to free thereout; but all in vaine. For, striving more, the more in laces

strong

Himselfe he tide, and wrapt his winges twaine

fore

Did tickle inwardly in everie vaine,

And his false hart, fraught with all trea

sons store,

Was fil'd with hope his purpose to obtaine: Himselfe he close upgathered more and

more

Into his den, that his deceiptfull traine By his there being might not be bewraid, Ne anie noyse, ne anie motion made.

Like as a wily foxe, that, having spide Where on a sunnie banke the lambes doo play,

Full closely creeping by the hinder side, Lyes in ambushment of his hoped pray,

That in the ende he breathelesse did re

maine,

And all his youthly forces idly spent Him to the mercie of th' avenger lent.

Which when the greisly tyrant did espie, Like a grimme lyon rushing with fierce might

Out of his den, he seized greedelie
On the resistles pray, and with fell spight,
Under the left wing stroke his weapon slie
Into his heart, that his deepe groning
spright

In bloodie streames foorth fled into the aire,

His bodie left the spectacle of care.

MICHAEL DRAYTON

(1563-1632)

To the Cambro-Britons and their
Harp, his Ballad 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 Caux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,

Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort,
Furnished in warlike sort,
Marcheth tow'rds Agincourt
In happy hour;
Skirmishing day by day,
With those that stopp'd his way,
Where the French gen'ral 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.

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

Lopp'd the French lilies.

The Duke of York so dread
The eager vaward led,
With the main, Henry sped,
Amongst his hench-men.
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 didst 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 bilbos 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,
Bare 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;
O when shall English men
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

(1564-1616)

Under the Greenwood Tree

UNDER the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither! Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,

And pleased with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither! Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

If it do come to pass That any man turn ass, Leaving his wealth and ease A stubborn will to please, Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame! Here shall he see

Gross fools as he,

An if he will come to me.

Hark, Hark! the Lark

HARK, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,

And Phoebus gins arise

His steeds to water at those springs
On chalic'd flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise,
Arise, arise.

Full Fathom Five

FULL fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Ding-dong.

Hark! now I hear them,-ding-dong,

bell.

Queen.

Amen! [Exeunt Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and some Attendants]. Enter POLONIUS.

Pol. The ambassadors from Norway, my good lord,

Are joyfully return'd.

King. Thou still hast been the father of good news.

Pol. Have I, my lord? Assure you,
my good liege,

I hold my duty as I hold my soul,
Both to my God and to my gracious king.
And I do think, or else this brain of mine
Hunts not the trail of policy so sure
As it hath us'd to do, that I have found
The very cause of Hamlet's lunacy.

King. O, speak of that; that I do long to hear.

Pol. Give first admittance to the ambassadors.

My news shall be the fruit to that great feast.

King. Thyself do grace to them, and bring them in. [Exit Polonius.