Michael Drayton

And in regions far, Such heroes bring ye forth As those from whom we came; And plant our name Under that star Not known unto our North.

You brave heroic minds Worthy your country’s name, That honour still pursue; Go and subdue!

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

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,

Victor I will remain Or on this earth lie slain, Never shall she sustain Loss to redeem me.

Yet have we well begun, Battles so bravely won Have ever to the sun By fame been raisëd.

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 Kaux, the mouth of Seine,

Now at the last gasp of Love’s latest breath, When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies, When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes, Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death …

Dear, why should you command me to my rest, When now the night doth summon all to sleep? Methinks this time becometh lovers best; Night was ordain'd together friends to keep.

How many paltry, foolish, painted things, That now in coaches trouble every street, Shall be forgotten, whom no Poet sings, Ere they be well wrapt in their winding-sheet! Where I to thee eternity shall give, When nothing else remaineth of …

Thus when we fondly flatter our desires, Our best conceits do prove the greatest liars.

The mind is free, whate’er afflict the man, A King’s a King, do Fortune what she can.

He was a man (then boldly dare to say) In whose rich soul the virtues well did suit, In whom so mix’d the elements all lay, That none to one could sovereignty impute, As all did govern yet all did obey; He of a temper was so absolute,

Ill news hath wings, and with the wind doth go, Comfort’s a cripple and comes ever slow.

When Time shall turn those amber locks to grey, My verse again shall gild and make them gay.

I pray thee leave, love me no more, Call home the heart you gave me, I but in vain the saint adore, That can, but will not, save me.

The coast was clear.

He made him turn and stop, and bound, To gallop, and to trot the round, He scarce could stand on any ground, He was so full of mettle.

Next these, learn’d Jonson, in this list I bring, Who had drunk deep of the Pierian spring.

For that fine madness still he did retain Which rightly should possess a poet’s brain.

Marlowe, bathed in Thespian springs Had in him those brave translunary things, That the first poets had.

To my mild tutor merrily I came (For I was then a proper goodly page Much like a pigmy, scarce ten years of age) Clasping my slender arms about his thigh. O my dear master! cannot you (quoth I) Make me a poet? Do it, if you can,

That shire which we the Heart of England well may call.

Crave the tuneful nightingale to help you with her lay, The ousel and the throstlecock, chief music of our May.