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And, beating up their colours,
The fight they did renew,
And turning tow'rds the Spaniard,
A thousand more they slew.
The sharp steel-pointed arrows,
And bullets thick did fly;
Then did our valiant soldiers
Charge on most furiously;
Which made the Spaniards waver,—
They thought it best to flee,
They feared the stout behaviour
Of brave Lord Willoughby,

Then quoth the Spanish general :
Come, let us march away,

I fear we shall be spoiled all
If here we longer stay;

For yonder comes Lord Willoughby
With courage fierce and fell;
He will not give one inch of way
For all the devils in hell.'

And then the fearful enemy
Was quickly put to flight;
Our men pursued couragiously,
And caught their forces quite ;
But at the last they gave a shout
Which echoed through the sky,-
God and St. George for England!'
The conquerors did cry.

Then courage, noble Englishmen,
And never be dismayed;

If that we be but one to ten,

We will not be afraid

To fight with foreign enemies,
And set our nation free.

And thus I end the bloody bout
Of brave Lord Willoughby.

Unknown.

25

DEATH THE LEVELLER

THE glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade,

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill ;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;

Upon Death's purple altar now

See where the victor-victim bleeds:
Your heads must come

To the cold tomb;

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

James Shirley.

26

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE AND WHAT HE

HATH LEFT US

-SOUL of the age!

The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage!
My Shakespeare rise! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further, to make thee a room :
Thou art a monument without a tomb,
And art alive still while thy book doth live
And we have wits to read, and praise to give.
That I not mix thee so my brain excuses,

I mean with great, but disproportioned Muses:
For if I thought my judgment were of years,
I should commit thee surely with thy peers,
And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line.
And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,
From thence to honour thee I would not seek
For names but call forth thund'ring Æschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,

Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,
To life again, to hear thy buskin tread

And shake a stage or when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone for the comparison

Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come,
Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show,
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe,
He was not of an age, but for all time!
And all the Muses still were in their prime,
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm!
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines,

Which were so richly spun and woven so fit
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please,
But antiquated and deserted lie,

As they were not of Nature's family.
Yet must I not give Nature all; thy art,
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion; and, that he
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat
(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat
Upon the Muses' anvil; turn the same,
And himself with it, that he thinks to frame ;
Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn;
For a good poet's made, as well as born.

And such wert thou! look how the father's face
Lives in his issue, even so the race

Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines

In his well turnèd and true filèd lines ;

In each of which he seems to shake a lance,

As brandished at the eyes of ignorance.

Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were

To see thee in our waters yet appear,

And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,
That so did take Eliza, and our James!

But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere
Advanced, and made a constellation there!
Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage,
Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage,
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned
like night,

And despairs day but for thy volume's light.

Ben Jonson,

27

UPON THE DEATH OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY

SILENCE augmenteth grief, writing increaseth rage, Staled are my thoughts which loved and lost the wonder of our age;

Yet quickened now with fire, though dead with frost ere now,

Enraged I write, I know not what, dead-quick-I know not how.

Hard-hearted minds relent, and Rigour's tears abound,

And Envy strangely rues his end in whom no fault she found ;

Knowledge her light hath lost, Valour hath slain her knight;

Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the world's delight.

Place pensive wails his fall whose presence was her pride;

Time crieth out, My ebb is come,-his life was my spring-tide!

Fame mourns in that she lost the ground of her reports;

Each living wight laments his lack, and all in sundry sorts.

He was (woe worth that word!) to each wellthinking mind

A spotless friend, a matchless man, whose virtue ever shined,

Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ,

Highest conceits, longest foresights, and deepest works of wit,

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