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Foot it featly1 here and there,
And, sweet sprites, the burden bear.
Hark, hark!

The watch-dogs bark:

Bow-wow. Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow.

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 5

Into something rich and strange.

Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:


Hark! now I hear them,—Ding-dong, bell!

Where the bee sucks, there suck I;

In a cowslip's bell I lie;

There I couch when owls do cry;

On the bat's back I do fly

After summer merrily. 5 Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.


Hey nonny no! Men are fools that wish to die!
Is't not fine to dance and sing
When the bells of death do ring?
Is't not fine to swim in wine, 5 And turn upon the toe,
And sing hey nonny no,
When the winds blow and the seas flow?

Hey nonny no!

THOMAS CAMPION (1667-1620)

When to her lute Corinna sings,
Her voice revives the leaden strings,
And doth in highest notes appear
As any challenged echo clear;

1 neatly.

But when she doth of mourning speak, 5

E'en with her sighs the strings do break.

And as her lute doth live or die,

Led by her passion, so must I:

For when of pleasure she doth sing,

My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring; 10

But if she doth of sorrow speak,

E'en from my heart the strings do break.


When thou must home to shades of underground, And there arrived, a new admired guest, The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, White lope, blithe Helen, and the rest, To hear the stories of thy finished love 5 From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;

Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,

Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,

Of journeys and great challenges of knights,

And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake; 10

When thou hast told these honors done to thee,

Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me.


Come, cheerful day, part of my life to me;
For while thou view'st me with thy fading light, Part of my life doth still depart with thee,
And I still onward haste to my last night. Time's fatal wings do ever forward fly: 5
So every day we live a day we die.

But O ye nights, ordained for barren rest, How are my days deprived of life in you
When heavy sleep my soul hath dispossest,
By feigned death life sweetly to re-
new! 10
Part of my life in that, you life deny:
So every day we live, a day we die.


Now winter nights enlarge

The number of their hours;

And clouds their storms discharge

Upon the airy towers.

Let now the chimneys blaze, 5

And cups o'erflow with wine,

Let well-tuned words amaze

With harmony divine.

Now yellow waxen lights

Shall wait on honey love; 10

While youthful revels, masques, and

courtly sights, Sleep's leaden spells remove.

This time doth well dispense With lovers' long discourse; Much speech hath some defence, 15 Though beauty no remorse. All do not all things well:Some measures comely tread, Some knotted riddles tell, Some poems smoothly read. 20 The summer hath his joys, And winter his delights; Though love and all his pleasures are but toys, They shorten tedious nights.


There is a garden in her face

Where roses and white lilies grow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow: There cherries grow, which none may buy s

Till"Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows, g
They look like rosebuds filled with snow;Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy
Till " Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still;

Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threatening with piercing frowns to kill 15 All that attempt, with eye or hand, Those sacred cherries to come nigh Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.


What if a day, or a month, or a year, Crown thy delights, with a thousand sweet contentings? Cannot a chance of a night or an hour Cross thy desires with as many sad tor- mentings? Fortune, honor, beauty, youth, 5

Are but blossoms dying; Wanton pleasure, doting love,

Are but shadows flying; All our joys are but toys,

Idle thoughts deceiving; 10 None have power of an hour

In their life's bereaving.

Earth's but a point to the world, and a man Is but a point to the world's compared centre; 14

Shall then a point of a point be so vain As to triumph in a silly point's adventure? All is hazard that we have,

There is nothing biding;
Days of pleasure are like streams

Through fair meadows gliding. 20 Weal and woe, Time doth go,

Time is never turning: Secret fates guide our states,

Both in mirth and mourning.


Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?

O sweet content! Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?

O punishment! Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed To add to golden numbers golden numbers? 6 O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!

Work apace, apace, apace, apace;

Honest labor bears a lovely face, Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

Canst drink the waters of the crisped1 spring? 11 O sweet content!

1 rippling.

Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in
thine own tears? O punishment!Then he that patiently want's burden
bears 15

No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet con-
tent! Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labor bears a lovely face.
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny


Golden slumbers kiss your eyes,
Smiles awake you when you rise;
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby:
Rock them, rock them, lullaby. 5

Care is heavy, therefore sleep you;

You are care, and care must keep you;

Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,

And I will sing a lullaby:

Rock them, rock them, lullaby. 10


Fair stood the wind for France,
When we our sails advance,1
Nor now to prove our chance

Longer will tarry; But putting to the main, 5 At Caux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train

Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort,

Furnished in warlike sort, 10

Marcheth towards Agincourt

In happy hour;
Skirmishing, day by day,
With those that stopped his way,
Where the French general lay 15

With all his power.

Which,2 in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide
To the King sending; 20

1 not. 'the French general.Which3 he neglects the while,
As from a nation vile,
Yet with an angry smile,
Their fall portending.

And turning to his men, 25 Quoth our brave Henry then:
"Though they to one be ten

Be not amazed!
Yet have we well begun:
Battles so bravely won 30 Have ever to the sun

By fame been raised.

"And for myself," quoth he,
"This my full rest4 shall be:
England ne'er mourn for me, 35

Nor more esteem me.
Victor I will remain,
Or on this earth lie slain;
Never shall she sustain

Loss to redeem me. 40

"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, 45
Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat

Lopped the French lilies."

The Duke of York so dread

The eager vaward5 led; 50

With the main,6 Henry sped

Amongst his henchmen:
Exeter had the rear,
A braver man not there!
O Lord, how hot they were 55

On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone:
Armor on armor shone;
Drum now to drum did groan,

To hear, was wonder; 60 That,7 with the cries they make,
The very earth did shake;
Trumpet to trumpet spake,

Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became, 65 O noble Erpingham,

1 the command to send a ransom.
1 advance guard. • main host.

1 resolution
'so that.

Which didst the signal aim

To our hid forces; When, from a meadow by, Like a storm suddenly, 70 The English archery

Stuck the French horses,

With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long, That like to serpents stung, 75

Piercing the weather;
None from his fellow starts,
But, playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts,

Stuck close together. 80

When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilbows drew,
And on the French they flew,

Not one was tardy:
Arms were from shoulders sent, 85
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went:

Our men were hardy.

This while our noble King, His broad sword brandishing, 90 Down the French host did ding,1

As to o'erwhelm it; And many a deep wound lent, His arms with blood besprent,2 And many a cruel dent 95

Bruised his helmet.

Gloucester, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood,

With his brave brother, 100 Clarence, in steel so bright;
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight

Scarce such another.

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Which fame did not delay 115

To England to carry.
O when shall English men
With such acts fill a pen?
Or England breed again

Such a King Harry? 120

BEN JONSON (1673?-1637)

Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,

Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, 5 Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade

Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear when day did close: 10 Bless us then with wished sight, Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart

And thy crystal-shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart 15 Space to breathe, how short soever: Thou that mak'st a day of night, Goddess excellently bright.


Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise 5

Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honoring thee 10 As giving it a hope, that there

It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,

And sent'st it back to me; 14 Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.


See the chariot at hand here of Love,

Wherein my lady rideth!
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,

And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty 5

Unto her beauty;
And enamored, do wish, so they might

But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side,
Through swords, through seas, whither she
would ride. 10

Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that Love's world compriseth! Do but look on her hair, it is bright

As Love's star when it riseth!
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother 15
Than words that soothe her;
And from her arched brows such a grace
Sheds itself through the face,
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good, of the elements'
strife. 20

Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall o' the snow
Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool o' the beaver? 25
Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar?
Or the nard1 i' the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee?

0 so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she! 30


To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy book and fame; While I confess thy writings to be such As neither man nor muse can praise too much. Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways 5

Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise;For silliest ignorance on these may light, Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes


1 spikenard.

Or blind affection, which doth ne'er ad-
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance; 10

Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin, where it seemed to raise.
These are, as some infamous bawd or whore
Should praise a matron. What could hurt her more?
But thou art proof against them, and, in-
deed, 15
Above the ill fortune of them, or the need.
I therefore will begin. 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 20
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; 26 For if I thought my judgment were of

years, I should commit2 thee surely with thy peers, And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine, Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line. 30

And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek, From thence to honor thee, I would not seek For names, but call forth thundering

^Eschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles to us, Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, 35 To life again, to hear thy buskin tread, And shake a stage; or when thy socks were

on, Leave th' for the comparison Of all' \. "Greece or haughty

R tou-. Sent \_unk~ Ti their ashes

V,deca_, 40

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