Cho:

Fayre Dove and Darwine cleere,
boast yee your beauties,
To Trent your Mistres here

yet pay your duties:

My Love was higher borne,

tow'rds the full Fountaines,

Yet she doth Moorland scorne

and the Peake Mountaines;
Nor would she none should dreame,
where she abideth

Humble as is the streame
which by her slydeth

On thy Bancke,

In a Rancke,

Let thy Swanns sing her,

And with their Musick

along let them bring her.

Yet my poore Rusticke Muse
nothing can move her,

Nor the meanes I can use
though her true Lover:
Many a long Winter's night
have I wak'd for her,
Yet this my piteous plight
nothing can stirre her:
All thy Sands silver Trent
downe to the Humber,
The sighes that I have spent
never can number.

Cho:

On thy Bancke,

In a Rancke,

Let thy Swans sing her And with their Musicke

along let them bring her.

Taken with this suddaine Song,
Least for mirth when he doth look,
His sad heart more deeply stong
Then the former care he tooke:
At their laughter and amaz'd,
For a while he sat aghast
But a little having gaz'd

Thus he then bespoke at last.

Is this time for mirth (quoth he)
To a man with griefe opprest,
Sinfull wretches as you be,
May the sorrowes in my breast
Light upon you one by one,

And as now you mocke my woe,

When your mirth is turn'd to moane

May your like then serve you so.

When one Swaine among the rest Thus him merily bespake :

Get thee up, thou arrant beast;
Fits this season love to make?
Take thy Sheephooke in thy hand,
Clap thy Curre and set him on ;
For our fields t'is time to stand,
Or they quickly will be gon.
Rouguish Swineheards that repine

At our Flocks, like beastly Clownes,
Sweare that they will bring their Swine
And will wroote up all our Downes.
They their Holly whips have brac'd,
And tough Hazell goades have gott;
Soundly they your sides will baste
If their courage faile them not.
Of their purpose if they speed
Then your Bagpypes you may burne;
It is neither Droane nor Reed,
Shepheard, that will serve your turne.
Angry Olcon sets them on

And against us part doth take,
Ever since he was out-gone
Offring Rymes with us to make.
Yet, if so our Sheep-hookes hold,
Dearly shall our Downes be bought;

For it never shall be told

We our Sheep-walkes sold for naught.
And we here have got us Dogges

Best of all the Westerne breed,

Which, though Whelps, shall lug their Hogges

Till they make their eares to bleed:

Therefore Shepheard come away.

Whereas Dorilus arose

Whistles Cut-tayle from his play,

And along with them he goes.

From "The Battaile of Agincourt," 1627.

HE man whose way from London hap'd to lye

THE

By those he met might guesse the generall force, Daily encountred as he passed by

Now with a Troupe of Foote and then of Horse;
To whom the people still themselves apply,
Bringing them victuals as in meere remorce :

And still the acclamation of the presse,

Saint George for England to your good successe!

There might a man have seene in ev'ry Streete
The Father bidding farewell to his Sonne;
Small Children kneeling at their Fathers feete;
The Wife with her deare Husband ne'r had done;
Brother his Brother with adieu to greete;
One Friend to take leave of another runne;

The Mayden, with her best belov'd to part,
Gave him her hand who tooke away her heart.

The nobler Youth, the common ranke above,
On their corvetting Coursers mounted faire,
One ware his Mistris Garter, one her Glove;
And he a lock of his deare Ladies haire,
And he her Colours whom he most did love;
There was not one but did some Favour weare:
And each one tooke it on his happy speede,
To make it famous by some Knightly deede.

A description of the siege of

Harflewe in the 19 following Stanzaes.

From "The Battaile of Agincourt,” 1627.

OW doe they mount their Ordnance for the day,
Their scaling Ladders rearing to the walls,
Their battering Rammes against the gates they lay,
Their brazen slings send in the wilde-fire balls,
Baskets of twigs now carie stones and clay;
And to th'assault who furiously not falls?

The Spade and Pickax working are belowe,
Which then unfelt yet gave the greatest blowe.

Rampiers of earth the painefull Pyoners raise
With the walls equall, close upon the Dike,
To passe by which the Souldier that assayes
On Planks thrust over, one him downe doth strike;
Him with a mall a second English payes;

A second French transpearc'd him with a Pyke:

That from the height of the embattel'd Towers,

Their mixed blood runne downe the walls in showers.

A French man back into the Towne doth fall,

With a sheafe Arrow shot into the head;

An English man in scaling of the wall

From the same place is by a stone struck dead;
Tumbling upon them logs of wood, and all
That any way for their defence might sted:

The hills at hand re-echoing with the din
Of shouts without and fearefull shrieks within