O for a Muse of fire, that would ascendThe brightest heaven of invention,A kingdom for a stage, princes to actAnd monarchs to behold the swelling scene!Then should the warlike Harry, like himself,Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels,Leashed in like hounds, should Famine, Sword and FireCrouch for employment. But pardon, gentles all,The flat unraised spirits that have daredOn this unworthy scaffold to bring forthSo great an object. Can this cockpit holdThe vasty fields of France? or may we cramWithin this wooden O the very casquesThat did affright the air at Agincourt?O pardon! since a crooked figure mayAttest in little place a million,And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,On your imaginary forces work.Suppose within the girdle of these wallsAre now confined two mighty monarchies, Whose high upreared and abutting frontsThe perilous narrow ocean parts asunder:Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts;Into a thousand parts divide one man,And make imaginary puissance;Think, when we talk of horses, that you see themPrinting their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth;For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings,Carry them here and there, jumping o'er times,Turning the accomplishment of many yearsInto an hour-glass. INTERLUDE
Now all the youth of England are on fire,And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies:Now thrive the armourers, and honour's thoughtReigns solely in the breast of every man:They sell the pasture now to buy the horse,Following the mirror of all Christian kings,With winged heels, as English Mercuries:For now sits Expectation in the air,And hides a sword from hilts unto the pointWith crowns imperial, crowns and coronets,Promised to Harry and his followers.The French, advised by good intelligenceOf this most dreadful preparation,Shake in their fear, and with pale policySeek to divert the English purposes.O England! model to thy inward greatness,Like little body with a mighty heart, What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do,Were all thy children kind and natural!But see thy fault: France hath in thee found outA nest of hollow bosoms, which he fillsWith treacherous crowns; and three corrupted men,One, Richard Earl of Cambridge, and the second,Henry Lord Scroop of Masham, and the third,Sir Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland,Have for the gilt of France—O guilt indeed!—Confirmed conspiracy with fearful France;And by their hands this grace of kings must die,If hell and treason hold their promises,Ere he take ship for France, and in Southampton!— HARFLEUR
Thus with imagined wing our swift scene fliesIn motion of no less celerityThan that of thought. Suppose that you have seenThe well-appointed king at Hampton PierEmbark his royalty, and his brave fleetWith silken streamers the young Phœbus fanning:Play with your fancies, and in them beholdUpon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing;Hear the shrill whistle which doth order giveTo sounds confused; behold the threaden sails,Borne with the invisible and creeping windDraw the huge bottoms through the furrowed seaBreasting the lofty surge. O, do but thinkYou stand upon the rivage and beholdA city on the inconstant billows dancing! For so appears this fleet majestical,Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow:Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy,And leave your England, as dead midnight still,Guarded with grandsires, babies and old women,Or passed or not arrived to pith and puissance;For who is he, whose chin is but enrichedWith one appearing hair, that will not followThese culled and choice-drawn cavaliers to France?Work, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege:Behold the ordnance on their carriages,With fatal mouths gaping on girded Harfleur.Suppose the ambassador from the French comes back;Tells Harry that the king doth offer himKatharine his daughter, and with her to dowrySome petty and unprofitable dukedoms.The offer likes not: and the nimble gunnerWith linstock now the devilish cannon touches,And down goes all before them! THE EVE
Now entertain conjecture of a timeWhen creeping murmur and the poring darkFills the wide vessel of the universe.From camp to camp through the foul womb of nightThe hum of either army stilly sounds,That the fixed sentinels almost receiveThe secret whispers of each other's watch:Fire answers fire, and through their paly flamesEach battle sees the other's umbered face; Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighsPiercing the night's dull ear, and from the tentsThe armourers, accomplishing the knights,With busy hammers closing rivets up,Give dreadful note of preparation.The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll,And the third hour of drowsy morning name.Proud of their numbers and secure in soul,The confident and over-lusty FrenchDo the low-rated English play at dice,And chide the cripple, tardy-gaited nightWho like a foul and ugly witch doth limpSo tediously away. The poor condemned English,Like sacrifices, by their watchful firesSit patiently and inly ruminateThe morning's danger, and their gesture sad,Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats,Presenteth them unto the gazing moonSo many horrid ghosts. O now, who will beholdThe royal captain of this ruined bandWalking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,Let him cry 'Praise and glory on his head!'For forth he goes and visits all his host,Bids them good-morrow with a modest smile,And calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen.Upon his royal face there is no noteHow dread an army hath enrounded him;Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colourUnto the weary and all-watched night,But freshly looks and over-bears attaintWith cheerful semblance and sweet majesty, That every wretch, pining and pale before,Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks.A largess universal like the sunHis liberal eye doth give to every one,Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all,Behold, as may unworthiness define,A little touch of Harry in the night—And so our scene must to the battle fly.Shakespeare
Fair stood the wind for France,When we our sails advance,Nor now to prove our chanceLonger 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,Marched towards AgincourtIn happy hour,Skirmishing day by dayWith those that stopped his way,Where the French gen'ral layWith all his power:
Which, in his height of pride,King Henry to deride,His ransom to provideTo the king sending; Which he neglects the whileAs from a nation vile,Yet with an angry smileTheir 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 wonHave ever to the sunBy 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 remainOr on this earth lie slain;Never shall she sustainLoss to redeem me.
Poitiers and Cressy tell,When most their pride did swell,Under our swords they fell;No less our skill isThan when our grandsire great,Claiming the regal seat,By many a warlike featLopped the French lilies.'
The Duke of York so dreadThe eager vaward led;With the main Henry sped,Amongst his henchmen;Excesterhad the rear,A braver man not there:O Lord, how hot they wereOn 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 makeThe very earth did shake,Trumpet to trumpet spake,Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became,O noble Erpingham,Which did the signal aimTo our hid forces!When from the meadow by,Like a storm suddenly,The English archeryStruck 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 heartsStuck 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 broadsword brandishing,Down the French host did dingAs to o'erwhelm it,And many a deep wound lent,His arms with blood besprent,And many a cruel dentBruised his helmet.
Glo'ster, 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 fightScarce 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 WilloughbyBare them right doughtily,Ferrers and Fanhope.
Upon Saint Crispin's DayFought was this noble fray,Which fame did not delay,To England to carry.O, when shall EnglishmenWith such acts fill a pen,Or England breed againSuch a King Harry?Drayton.
How happy is he born or taughtWho serveth not another's will;Whose armour is his honest thought,And simple truth his highest skill;
Whose passions not his masters are;Whose soul is still prepared for death—Not tied unto the world with careOf prince's ear or vulgar breath;
Who hath his ear from rumours freed;Whose conscience is his strong retreat;Whose state can neither flatterers feed,Nor ruin make oppressors great;
12 JONSON
Who envies none whom chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given with praise,
Nor rules of state but rules of good;
Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend,
And entertains the harmless day
With a well-chosen book or friend
This man is free from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall :
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And, having nothing, yet hath all.
Woiton.
��Ill
TRUE BALM
HIGH-SPIRITED friend,
I send nor balms nor corsives to your wound ;
Your faith hath found
A gentler and more agile hand to tend
The cure of that which is but corporal,
And doubtful days, which were named critical,
Have made their fairest flight
And now are out of sight.
Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mind,
Wrapped in this paper lie,
Which in the taking if you misapply
You are unkind.
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� Your covetous hand,
Happy in that fair honour it hath gained,
Must now be reined.
True valour doth her own renown commend
In one full action; nor have you now more
To do than be a husband of that store.
Think but how dear you bought
This same which you have caught
Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth.
'Tis wisdom, and that high,
For men to use their fortune reverently,
Even in youth.
IV
HONOUR IN BUD
IT is not growing like a tree
In bulk doth make man better be :
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May :
Although it fall and die that night,
It was the plant and flower of light.
Jonson.
v
THE JOY OF BATTLE
ARM, arm, arm, arm! the scouts are all come in;
Keep your ranks close, and now your honours win.
Behold from yonder hill the foe appears;
Bows, bills, glaives, arrows, shields, and spears!
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� 14 JOHN FLETCHER
Like a daric wood he comes, or tempest pouring;
O view the wings of horse the meadows scouring!
The vanguard marches bravely. Hark, the drums !
Dub, dub !
They meet, they meet, and now the battle comes:
See how the arrows fly
That darken all the sky !
Hark how the trumpets sound !
Hark how the hills rebound
Tara, tara, tara, tara, tara!
Hark how the horses charge ! in, boys ! boys, in !
The battle totters; now the wounds begin:
O how they cry !
O how they die !
Room for the valiant Memnon, armed with thunder !
See how he breaks the ranks asunder !
They fly ! they fly ! Eumenes has the chase,
And brave Polybius makes good his place :
To the plains, to the woods,
To the rocks, to the floods,
They fly for succour. Follow, follow, follow !
Hark how the soldiers hollow !
Hey, hey!
Brave Diocles is dead,
And all his soldiers fled ;
The battle's won, and lost,
That many a life hath cost.
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� VI
IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY
MORTALITY, behold and fear!
What a change of flesh is here !
Think how many royal bones
Sleep beneath this heap of stones !
Here they lie had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their hands.
Here from their pulpits sealed with dust
They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.'
Here is 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.
VII
GOING A-MAYING
GET up, get up for shame ! The blooming morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn:
See how Aurora throws her fair
Fresh-quilted colours through the air :
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� 16 HERRICK
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see
The dew-bespangled herb and tree !
Each flower has wept and bowed toward the east,
Above an hour since, yet you not drest,
Nay, not so much as out of bed?
When all the birds have matins said,
And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin,
Nay, profanation, to keep in,
Whenas a thousand virgins on this day
Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May.
Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth like the spring-time fresh and green,
And sweet as Flora. Take no care
For jewels for your gown or hair :
Fear not; the leaves will strew
Gems in abundance upon you :
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.
Come, and receive them while the light
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night,
And Titan on the eastern hill
Retires himself, or else stands still
Till you come forth! Wash, dress, be brief in
praying:
Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.
Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark
How each field turns a street, each street a park,
Made green and trimmed with trees ! see how
Devotion gives each house a bough
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