With the main Henry sped, Amongst his henchmen. Exeter had the rear, O Lord! how hot they were 55 They now to fight are gone, To hear was wonder; That with the cries they make, The very earth did shake, Well it thine age became, To our hid forces; 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, That eats on wits and arts, and [so] destroys them both. Are all the Aonian springs Dried up? lies Thespia waste? Doth Clarius' harp want strings, That not a nymph now sings! Or droop they as disgraced, ΙΟ To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies defaced? If hence thy silence be, As 'tis too just a cause, Let this thought quicken thee: Should not on Fortune pause; 15 'Tis crown enough to Virtue still, her own applause. What though the greedy fry Be taken with false baits Of worded balladry, And think it poesy? They die with their conceits, And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits. 20 Then take in hand thy lyre, 25 Strike in thy proper strain, With Japhet's line, aspire Sol's chariot for new fire, To give the world again : Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's brain. And since our dainty age Cannot endure reproof, Make not thyself a page But sing high and aloof, 31 35 Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull ass's hoof. XLIV MELANCHOLY. Ben Jonson. Hence, all you vain delights, Oh, sweetest melancholy! A look that's fastened to the ground, Beaumont and Fletcher. |