With the main Henry sped,

Amongst his henchmen.

Exeter had the rear,
A braver man not there,

O Lord! how hot they were
On the false Frenchmen !

55

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,
Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham,
Which did the signal aim

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

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:
Minds that are great and free,

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
To that strumpet the stage,

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,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly !
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see't,
But only melancholy,

Oh, sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms, and fixèd eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,

A look that's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained up without a sound!
Fountain-heads, and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan!
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

Beaumont and Fletcher.