To the Cambro-Britons and Their Harp, his Ballad of Agincourt

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,

With all his martial train,

Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort,

Furnished in warlike sort,

Marcheth towards Agincourt,

In happy hour;

Skirmishing day by day

With those that stopped his way,

Where the French gen'ral lay

With all his power.

Which in his height of pride,

King Henry to deride,

His ransom to provide

To the King sending;

Which he neglects the while

As from the nation vile,

Yet with an angry smile

Their fall portending.

And turning to his men,

Quoth our brave Henry then:

Though they to one be ten,

Be not amazëd.

Yet have we well begun,

Battles so bravely won

Have ever to the sun

By fame been raisëd.

And for myself, quoth he,

This my full rest shall be,

England ne'er mourn for me,

Nor more esteem me;

Victor I will remain

Or on this earth lie slain,

Never shall she sustain

Loss to redeem me.

Poitiers and Crécy tell,

When most their pride did swell,

Under our swords they fell;

No less our skill is

Than when our grandsire great,

Claiming the regal seat

By many a warlike feat,

Lopped the French lilies.

The Duke of York so dread

The eager vaward led;

With the main Henry sped

Amongst his henchmen.

Excester had the rear,

A braver man not there,

O Lord, how hot they were

On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone,

Armor on armor shone,

Drum now to drum did groan,

To hear was wonder,

That with cries they make

The very earth did shake,

Trumpet to trumpet spake,

Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became,

O noble Erpingham,

Which didst 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,

But playing manly parts,

And like true English hearts,

Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw,

And forth their bilboes 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 broad sword brandishing,

Down the French host did ding,

As to o'erwhelm it;

And many a deep wound lent,

His arms with blood besprent,

And many a cruel dent

Bruised his helmet.

Gloster, 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 fight,

Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade,

Oxford the foe invade,

And cruel slaughter made,

Still as they ran up;

Suffolk his ax 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

To England to carry;

Oh, when shall English men

With such acts fill a pen,

Or England breed again

Such a King Harry?

Michael Drayton

To His Coy Love

I PRAY thee, leave, love me no more,

Call home the heart you gave me!

I but in vain that saint adore

That can but will not save me.

These poor half-kisses kill me quite--

Was ever man thus servèd?

Amidst an ocean of delight

For pleasure to be starvèd?

Show me no more those snowy breasts

With azure riverets branchèd,

Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts,

Yet is my thirst not stanchèd;

O Tantalus, thy pains ne'er tell!

By me thou art prevented:

'Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell,

But thus in Heaven tormented.

Clip me no more in those dear arms,

Nor thy life's comfort call me,

O these are but too powerful charms,

And do but more enthral me!

     But see how patient I am grown

         In all this coil about thee:

     Come, nice thing, let thy heart alone,

         I cannot live without thee!

Michael Drayton

Sonnet vi

HOW many paltry, foolish, painted things,

That now in coaches trouble ev'ry street,

Shall be forgotten, whom no poet sings,

Ere they be well wrapped in their winding sheet!

Where I to thee eternity shall give,

When nothing else remaineth of these days,

And queens hereafter shall be glad to live

Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise;

Virgins and matrons reading these my rhymes

Shall be so much delighted with thy story

That they shall grieve they lived not in these times,

To have seen thee, their sex's only glory.

So shalt thou fly above the vulgar throng,

Still to survive in my immortal song.

Michael Drayton

Sonnet lxi

SINCE there's no help, come let us kiss and part;

Nay, I have done, you get no more of me,

And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart

That thus so cleanly I myself can free;

Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows,

And when we meet at any time again,

Be it not seen in either of our brows

That we one jot of former love retain.

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 to life, thou mightst him yet recover.

Michael Drayton